Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Read online

  She gave him a weary glance, rolling her eyes. “Ach, Aidan. Your life is always at risk. You’re the chieftain of this clan, di ye forget? Or di’ ye lose your wits already o’er the pretty lass?” she asked irascibly.

  “Of course not, but you sold the woman to me as the savior of our clan—now ye tell me she could be the death of me yet. Make up your bluidy mind, Una!”

  She lifted one white brow. “No one has said both things canna be true.”

  The words slipped from his tongue, but he regretted them almost at once. “I am beginning to doubt this was the right thing to do!”

  In fact, it may have been the worst thing he could have said to her, for Una glowered at him, and the mist surrounding them seem to rise and coalesce, so that he did not quite see her bend to retrieve her staff, but when it cleared, he saw the staff was in her hand. The opalesque jewel in the claw seemed to wink at him.

  Simply because he was a student of the old ways did not mean he did not know the stories passed down by the Holy Church. Moses had used his staff to part the Red Sea, Pharaoh’s magicians had transformed their wands into writhing snakes, and then turned the waters blood red by its touch. Una’s staff betimes seemed to raise a mist that swallowed the Highlands whole. Just when he felt his faith slipping away, she somehow scared the hell out of him with her tricks and that one-eyed glare that made her look every bit the blue-faced Mother of Winter.

  Una watched him across the table. Her keek stane forgotten for the instant, she cast her one-eyed gaze toward Aidan, all traces of her earlier good humor diminished. Her unnaturally green eye seemed to glow in the dim light, pale and luminous like the crystal keek stane. She held her staff upright, her knuckles turning white to match the weathered ash wood in her hand, and she hissed, “Ailpín blood flows through your veins, the first whose blood stems from me and mine!”

  They were of a lineage that flowed true and straight—kin to the Ailpín king who had once wed a Pecht princess. But Aidan’s frown deepened, and so did his doubts. “What answer is that to my question, Una? David also bears the blood of Kenneth mac Ailpín, and yet you do not believe him fit to rule.”

  “David’s blood is not so pure as yours,” she countered, narrowing her one good eye and lowering her voice.

  Her cryptic answers were not appeasing him. In fact, they were confusing him all the more and it vexed him. “Bollocks! David’s blood flows red the same as mine!”

  “David mac Maíl Choluim is far from his origins,” she answered calmly. “He is like a tree whose roots are exposed and will no longer sustain him.”

  In his temper, Aidan slammed a hand down upon the table, though unlike most who may have flinched at his temper, Una did not. He waved a hand, dismissing her answers—all of them—growing angrier by the instant, for while they sat here mincing words, a child lay dying, and Aidan might well have hurried him to his grave. “None of this has one thing to do with my question,” he told her. “I must know! Did I do the right thing allowing Lìleas to tend Glenna’s son?”

  Una relaxed her hold upon her staff, letting it lean once more upon the table, and said, as though it were idle gossip she were recounting rather than talk of treachery. “Your Scots bride may betray you at least once before she finds her true path, but I do not know what form that betrayal will take.”

  “Ach! Are ye telling me Dunc may, in truth, die?”

  She sat straighter, the mist rising once more. “I did not mince words, Aidan dún Scoti!” Chill air swirled about the room, like icy fingers beneath his breacan and she smiled thinly, knowing how deeply the barb would sting. It was one thing for Lìleas to use the epithet, another yet for Una to wield it.

  Mo chreach! If it meant he must trust in things he could not see and words he could not comprehend to be a Pecht, mayhap he was in truth more a Scot. He could not seem to see any truth or find peace in Una’s words. He rose from the table, considering how much damage may have already been wrought in his absence. If he left now, mayhap he could prevent further damage to the boy?

  He didn’t know what to say, for he felt foolish now for having sought Una at all—and for not trusting the one thing that had served him well enough throughout his entire life: his gut. But he could not bring himself to leave without a kind word, for Una had been their keeper from the instant he’d given his first wail into the world. “Thank you,” he said, his tone tight with worry as he made to leave.

  “Aidan,” she called to him, after he’d put his foot on the ladder.

  Filled with turmoil over his thoughts, he turned to meet Una’s bright gaze across the misty room.

  She said, “The mon who never questions his path is oft blinded by the sight of his own feet.”

  Aidan hesitated, closing an eye to consider her advice. But it made his head hurt. As perplexing as it might seem, there was nearly always reason to her madness. This moment, however, he did not recognize wisdom in her words.

  “Look to the stars to sustain your faith,” she added.

  Although he hadn’t a bloody clue what the hell she was talking about, Aidan nodded, and left her at her worktable. Without another word she returned to her keek stane and Aidan climbed the ladder out of her tomblike hovel. As always, he felt the chill ease a bit as he ascended. On his way out of the tunnels, he lifted up a wheel of cheese, thinking that if aught would sustain him it would be auld Morag’s cheese.

  Morag was long gone, but her cheese filled their caverns still, for they hoarded it greedily, knowing it would be a long age ere her daughter learned to make it as well as her minny. Protected by beeswax and immersed deep in the caverns, most of Morag’s remaining wheels were near to seven years old now, and a handful were almost as old as Aidan.

  Bouncing the small wheel in his hand, he thought of Una’s words: Look to the stars, she’d said. What the hell could she mean by such a queer thing?

  He made his way out into the night air, where a thin layer of fog swirled at his feet, fine as a winter morning breath. The mist followed him out of the cave with a whoosh and settled like a sheet over the landscape, as though the entire blanket of Highland fog that crept out over the Mounth was born in the depths of Una’s grotto.

  He thought about their ancestors who had first come here... the stories that had been passed down through the ages. As the tales went, his clansmen had picked their way over these desolate mountains, and as they moved further into the Mounth, the corries had risen up behind them to bar their return. In the night sky, it was said they were guided by faeries who led them to a vale that was verdant and fertile despite being surrounded by hillocks of stone. To this day, it was said they stood guard on the ridge above the vale. Their bones were laid to rest in the old cairn at the top of the ridge and that same cairn also stood guard over the faerie glen beyond it, a field that bloomed even through the bitterest snow.

  Buried in that story was a shred of truth, but Aidan had come to realize that the rest, like the beeswax surrounding the cheese in his hand, was chaff to be discarded. The blooms they spoke of in that glen above the ridge were merely harbingers of spring—the hardy cròcas, with its yellow center and lavender petals nearly the color of his bride’s eyes.

  The night was black now even though the sky was clear—as clear as that keek stane that never seemed to yield any true visions as far as Aidan had ever known. He sighed, for they were simply an old woman’s ramblings. What was real, was the wheel of cheese in his hand right now. Aye, and what was real was the fact that wee Dunc was suffering near to death at this very instant and he’d left a stranger to tend him—the daughter of their enemy at that—no matter that she was soon to be his wife.

  If the boy died, how would he forgive himself?

  How could Glenna ever forgive him? He will have failed her as her chieftain, for he was sworn to protect her and all others unto his dying breath.

  Thank God Sorcha had remained with them to keep the peace. As soon as he walked through the door he would send Lìleas out of Glenna’s home. Aye, that’
s what must be done. Those violet eyes had weakened his resolve. But no more. He was chieftain here and he must do what was best for his kin—that and never less.

  He glanced down at the wheel of cheese in his hand.

  Bloody hell, how could he enjoy this treat while Glenna mourned?

  Mayhap he would give the cheese to Glenna but what the devil would Glenna do with a wheel of cheese and a dead son? By damn, instead of becoming easier, it seemed his path grew more difficult every day.

  Suddenly, he realized he was staring in the direction of his boots—not that he could see anything through the blanket of fog that had enveloped his ankles. He knew this mountain path as well as he knew the back of his hand and he was surefooted enough—had never stumbled through these hills like an awkward lad chasing after a wiggling arse.

  The mon who never questions his path is oft blinded by the sight of his own feet.

  By fog, more like, he thought, and chuckled, shaking his head.

  Look to the stars, she’d said as well.

  Peering up at the cloudless night sky, his gaze was drawn to the south, where the corries rose to their steepest point. It was said that the Mounth had been formed by Cailleach Bheur herself, and that wherever she went, she had dropped stones from her apron and in their places had risen the Highland hills. In her hand they said she kept a hammer... to beat down the hills when they rose too high, shaping them as she saw fit to protect those who dwelled within her realm. Faerie tales, of a certain, but there were some things he sensed were part truth. And still other things he could not take at face value, for they required that he cast away all logic.

  His mother used to tell him those stories.

  The sky in the north seemed clearest tonight. Stars twinkled fiercely and he thought about his mother’s eyes—what he could recall of them—that twinkle she’d had whenever she’d gazed upon her children. That sparkle had all but vanished after their father’s death, and during her final ten months upon the earth, whilst she carried an outlander’s bairn, the twinkle in her eyes had extinguished entirely. The day he’d buried her, she had gazed at him with the dead eyes of a stranger. And still he’d had trouble letting her go.

  Ach, if they buried everybody that ever lived within the vale, every inch of land would be marked by a grave, but alas, they did not, save one: his mother.

  Although his baby sister shared the same Da as Lìleas, Aidan had never once looked at Sorcha with the same disdain he felt for his bride. Could he ever see Lìleas through kinder eyes when she had been raised by the butcher who’d killed his father?

  As he walked down the hill, pondering that question, he suddenly spied a falling star, and then before he realized, he saw another, and yet another. One after the other they shot across the night sky like burning missiles and he was watching so intently that he stumbled, obviously not quite so sure footed as he’d believed. With a yelp of surprise, he tripped over a stone and tumbled down the hillside, rolling to a halt over a particularly rocky spot. Sharp pebbles poked him in the arse and back. “Mac Bhàdhair fhuileach thu!” he exclaimed. Son of a cow's bloody afterbirth!

  The night went deathly quiet.

  After a moment, from across the hillside, he heard Lachlann’s deep voice call out to him. “Aidan?” There was a question in his name.

  Embarrassed, Aidan rose to his feet, peering about to see who might have witnessed his fall down the hillside. Likely everyone had heard his cursing, but he didn’t have to admit anything to anyone. The fog was too thick for anyone to have seen. Aye, so he could simply walk away without a word. The mist was thicker now, obscuring the view, but he didn’t wish to worry anyone lest they come running with blades swinging, so he called out, “Carry on. All’s well!”

  But it wasn’t; he was so unnerved by the rare display in the sky and his tumble down the hill that he forgot to look for and retrieve the wheel of auld Morag’s cheese. Shaken, he made his way straight for Glenna’s cottage, thinking only of Una’s words.

  Look to the stars sustain your faith.

  Chapter Eight

  If the fall hadn’t rattled his brain, the sight that greeted Aidan when he entered Glenna’s cottage made him feel as though he had certainly gone daft. He couldn’t have been gone more than an hour, so the last thing he expected to encounter was Lìleas and Glenna holding hands together across the bed where young Duncan lay sleeping. His sister Sorcha was no longer present.

  The scent of burnt pine—or something like it—permeated the air. One of the candles at the child’s bedside had extinguished, leaving the room a little dimmer, but he was quite certain his eyes were not playing tricks upon him.

  Lìleas peered up when he came in the door, looking wearier than she had when he last saw her.

  “Where is my sister?” he asked, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  “She went searching for ye.”

  A shot of trepidation flew down Aidan’s nape and his gaze at once fell to the child in the bed. “Is he—”

  “Nay... he but sleeps.”

  Relief sidled down his spine. “Good,” he said, and collapsed into an empty chair near the table, stunned. “For what reason does my sister seek me?”

  Lìleas shrugged, her gaze averting to the crown of Glenna’s dark head. The woman had clearly fallen asleep against her will, for she lay in the most damnable position, reaching across the bed to grasp Lìleas’ hand.

  Willingly?

  Lìleas sighed, noting the direction of his gaze. “I ken what it’s like to worry o’er a sick bairn,” she offered. The tone of her voice revealed as much as her declaration and Aidan experienced a moment’s regret for the accusation in his question earlier in the day. It was clear now that leaving her son was not her choice, for she was a mother at heart.

  “Duncan isna a wee bairn any longer,” he argued gently. “The boy is eight or thereabouts, but I ken what ye are saying.” He kept his voice low, but there was wonder in it, for he still could not quite fathom how his bride had won fierce Glenna over in the short time since he’d left them. There was no other explanation for the fact that she had let down her guard enough to fall asleep, exhausted or nay, and had willingly given Padruig’s daughter her hand in friendship.

  Or had she?

  Once again his eyes sought their joined hands upon the bed, doubting the sight even as he stared at the fingers that lay clutched together so intimately.

  Damn, but he’d half expected Glenna to have plucked out Lìleas’ hair given half the chance—and he might have even half hoped for it, because he didn’t want to want this woman.

  Glenna’s Da had been one of those slaughtered during Padruig’s betrayal. And later, her husband had been one of the good men lost when Alasdair mac Mhaoil Chaluim reigned as King of the North and his brother David ruled the lands south of the River Forth. Alasdair had hounded him to join in quelling his younger brother’s rebellion, for David’s army had outnumbered his by far. When Aidan had refused to embroil himself in Scotia’s politics, Alasdair had responded with raids upon their glen—never confessing his part, of course. Instead, he had blamed his brother David, though of that crime, at least, Aidan knew David was innocent, for David had had his hands full trying to control his territories far to the south. The youngest of Malcolm Ceann Mohr’s sons was not well favored by the Scots, and particularly not by Highlanders he was trying so hard to rule, for he had spent nearly his whole life under the influence of English kings. Thus Glenna had good reason to loathe outsiders, and Aidan had returned, fully intending to adhere to her wishes and remove his Scot’s bride from her home. Alas, but if the woman should lose her son, that show of respect seemed the least Aidan could do.

  Apparently, there was no need.

  Somehow Lìleas had managed to find a bridge between them—through the boy, no doubt. Both of them were mothers, he reasoned, and only a mother could truly know another mother’s pain or fear of loss.

  Lìleas was no longer paying attention to him, he realized. Her attention
was centered upon the child, and Aidan sat quietly, watching her tend the lad, deeply affected by his conflicting thoughts. Una said she would betray him at least once before she found her true path... To watch her, he did not think she was capable of killing a child.

  So what the hell did Una mean?

  The room remained silent but for the sound of Glenna’s soft snores. After awhile, Lìleas released Glenna’s hand and rose. Removing her arisaid, she walked around the bed to place it upon Glenna’s shoulders, covering the sleeping mother as best she could. Aidan was heartily glad for the fact that it was not Caimbeul colors she wore, but that she had done so without sparing Aidan a word, or even a glance to see if he had noticed, moved him so that he could not think clearly in her presence. A simple act of kindness on her behalf should not make him let down his guard. Nay! He must not allow it. The risk to his clan was far too great. Without a word, he stood and let himself out of the cottage, letting her tend the child in peace—at least for the moment.

  He needed air.

  Nay, he needed a moment where he was not staring at his bride's too-bonny face and those silken curls that had come free from her dark plait, making him yearn to smooth them back out of her weary face. As she clearly had with Glenna, in just a few short hours she had already begun to bewitch him.

  His father used to say that only fools were certain of themselves. Wise men were full of doubts. If that were true, Aidan was, at this instant, the wisest man of all.

  In the distance, he spied the glow from the bonfire. Music and laughter carried through the night—a good sign that no one’s head was as yet on a pike.

  On the other hand, their Scots guests’ heads on pikes might actually provide for quite some entertainment for his men, but he knew them well enough to know they would never defy him, not even for the sake of revenge. Nay, their guests would have to do something vile to earn that fate, and even then his men would have come running to retrieve him first. It was more likely that, simply knowing his warriors would guard their backs, his clansmen had had enough uisge by now to overlook the hated Scoti in their midst.