Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (3 page)

Lìli shook her head. “Nay, not the garden! I only just came from there.” She glanced over her shoulder quickly to be certain her son did not linger. “Mayhap the courtyard?” she suggested a little less emphatically.

“You spend far too much time tending weeds,” he chastised, as he peered over her shoulder at her son’s retreating back. His black eyes gleamed with something Lìli could not name—an emotion she had never spied in anyone’s eyes save his.

His soul was black.

“Whatever suits you,” he relented, and then he turned and started toward the courtyard, expecting Lìli to follow—which she did, of course, even knowing his mood was far too cheery. Instinctively, she understood it boded ill. Not once did he peer back at her or slow his pace, though he must have heard her scrambling to keep up. “It has been four years now since my brother’s death,” he said.

“Indeed,” she replied.

Four years. Two months. Twenty days—every instant full of harrow.

At once her shoulders tightened, fearing the familiar discourse. Six times in four years Rogan had asked her to wed him—and that did not include all the drunken demands she share his bed without virtue of matrimony. Unlike his brother, the man bore not the least tenderness in his manner. He was as crude and cold as the Highlands in winter. At least now he had a mistress to keep him warm at night, but he clearly valued the girl not at all. Poor Aveline. Her father was a bit of a fool if he thought Rogan would come to have any affection for the lass. He would use her up and toss her away, like everything else he owned. The only reason he wanted Lìli so desperately was simply because he could not have her.

Rogan stopped abruptly and turned to appraise her in that familiar way that made her skin twitch. He studied her from her slippered feet to her breasts, and only belatedly met her gaze... as though it were an afterthought. Placing his hands behind his back, he rocked backward on his heels, puffing his chest—a stance that betrayed the arrogance within. “As well ye know, I canna continue to support both you and your son without recompense.”

Lìli swallowed, and averted her gaze.

Here now it began... yet again.

From the ramparts, a few curious onlookers peered down at them, watching, though she knew they would turn askance to save themselves the guilt of doing nothing if he raised his hand. No one defied Rogan MacLaren. He ruled his demesne without question and for most it was simply easier to ignore what they did not want to hear or see. Unfortunately, Lìli did not share that same predisposition. What she wouldn’t give to be away from here, but it seemed her father had washed his hands of her—and her son—knowing that everything attached to Keppenach now belonged to Stuart’s vile brother, including her dowry, meager as it had been.

“Alas, Lìli, what am I to do? I have offered endless opportunities to gi’ ye a proper title, and ye have refused. ’Tis time for me to get myself a wife and a child of my own.”

Aveline?

Surprised, Lìli’s gaze returned to Rogan’s face. But his look was smug, and it gave her a shudder. Rogan was handsome—she would give him that much. But his eyes, deep set and dark, were like pits of burned-out coals. If they had ever been alight with emotion, the light was long expired now. Lìli wondered what had happened to make him so terribly cold.

“It leaves me in quite a quandary, ye see, since I canna have ye here once she arrives.”

Ach, it was not Aveline.

Alas, but Lìli’s next thought was to pity the poor woman, whoever she might be. Aveline should consider herself fortunate, after all.

He smirked. “It seems no one of substance will have ye—and who could blame a mon?”

Lìli’s heart began to beat a little faster. Her mind stammered over possibilities. Would he cast her away now? Where precisely did that leave her and her son? Mayhap she could go to a nunnery? But what of Kellen?

“Take heart, there
is
a solution,” he suggested. “One that will allow ye to make amends with your father and return honor to his name.”

His eyes gleamed maliciously and Lìli blinked, uncertain what to say, for in truth she had done nothing to bring dishonor upon her father's name. She had been a good wife to Stuart, despite the brevity of their marriage. If, in fact, the curse was real, the mountain folk had cursed her for her father’s sins—not her own.

He could hardly have read her mind, and yet it seemed he had. “Ye do wish to honor your father, do ye not?”

Nothing about his smile was reassuring.

Anxiously, Lìli glanced over her shoulder, searching for her son, hoping Kellen was nowhere near, for if she refused whatever offer Rogan was about to make, his temper would surely loose the rafters. She breathed a sigh of relief that her son was nowhere to be seen and lifted her chin a little defiantly as she faced Rogan once more. “Tell me, Rogan, what would you propose?”

Rogan took his time answering, as though savoring her discomfort, and then he said at last, “I know of only one man who will have ye as yet...”

Lìli squared her shoulders, refusing to be baited. Anything would be better than this, she determined.
Anything
. “And who might that be?”

“Aidan dún Scoti.”

The response erupted from her lips without thought. “Nay!” She took a self-defensive step backward, her heart constricting painfully.

Rogan simply stood there, watching the emotions play across her face, enjoying her distress, judging by the smirk that turned his lips.

Aidan dún Scoti was a savage! Tales of him and his uncouth mountain folk were fodder for children’s nightmares. His tribesmen were hardly evolved from the Pechts and Northmen who had once travailed the untamable north. Only men who were as wild and unforgiving as those rugged hills themselves could survive so long so deep in the Mounth. And they would exile her there without mercy!

Lìli’s jaw worked angrily. “I said nay! I willna allow my son to be punished this way, Rogan. He doesna deserve this treatment.” She softened her voice for Kellen’s sake, hoping to appeal to Rogan’s better nature. “He is your nephew! You canna exile him to such a savage place.”

Rogan feigned offense, his expression practiced, like that of an actor’s. None of his emotions ever reached his eyes. “Why, my dear, I would never allow my nephew to suffer the indignities of the barbarous north.”

Lìli straightened her back, clenching her fist at her sides, surprised by his response. “What, then, prithee?”

“Ye alone will go.”

“What do ye mean, me alone?”

High above them, a hawk shrieked. The sound reverberated within Lìli’s skull.

“Just that, o’ course. Ye’ll go and wed the brute, do your duty to help unite the clans, and leave your son in my loving care.”

There was nothing that was kind or loving about Rogan MacLaren. He was, in truth, one of the cruelest men Lìli had ever known. “I will appeal this to King David!” she threatened.

He laughed in her face. “Come now… who d’ ye think ordered me to offer ye to dún Scoti in the first place, daft woman?”

“Ach, nay!” she exclaimed, and in self-preservation, backed away, ready to flee.

Rogan reached out and seized her firmly by the arm. “Come,” he demanded, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Let me apprise you of the details of your mission for the king.”

Dubhtolargg, the Highlands of Scotia

The journey north had been long and arduous. Aidan was ready for respite. Tired and ready for his bed, he nevertheless wrapped himself in his breacan.

His sister Lael's tone was fraught with sarcasm. “
King
David’s runner awaits ye in the hall.”

“Dinna leave the bastard alone!” Aidan demanded, and cursed beneath his breath as his door closed once more.

After riding two days over rough terrain, and after dealing with his sister Catrìona’s trials, a messenger from David mac Mhaoil Chaluim was the last thing he expected.

King David, humph!

It was entirely laughable that the man would hail himself as the rightful heir to the throne of Scotia, when the
Sassenach
-loving scoundrel had spent the whole of his youth suckling the teats of English maids. A true Scotsman faced his enemies squarely. They did not hie away when faced with a meager skirmish. And then, after all was said and done, he had lied to the MacKinnon when asked if Catrìona was the runaway he sought. He had stood and bold-faced lied to save himself the trouble of raising his sword.

Aye, they were enemies now, coward that he was.

Were it not for the MacKinnon’s presence in the grove where he’d tracked his sister Cat four days hence, he might have ordered all of his twenty warriors to fall upon the arrogant imbecile and hack him down to size. That was the bloody last time he would allow the blackguard under his roof. Had he not learned a thing from his father’s trials? Friends were those he knew and trusted, not those who simply employed the name. But Aidan’s greatest weakness was a bone-deep desire for peace. Even here in the Mounth, he felt political tensions rising, and he feared there might soon come an end to the years of peace since his father’s death.

Well, at least the fool was wise enough not to show up here in the flesh, because Aidan had trusted him once—never again. What he had gotten for his faith was a stab in the back. Peace was not possible amongst these warmongers. Why the hell they could not simply live and let live he could not comprehend. His clan had purposely kept itself apart from Scotia’s politics, but that was apparently not enough.

The bastard had come under the guise of friendship and had slipped into his sister’s bedchamber in the dead of the night, then had dragged the poor lass south without Aidan’s knowledge or permission—intending, he’d said, to give her in wedlock to some bloody border lord. The Reiver lords—all of them—might as well be English, for they were naught but feckless Scots, who gave deference to none. They raided Scots and English alike, stealing everything, including their wives. He wanted to kill David simply for the thought.

It would have been far smarter for him to run a dagger through his shoulder blades whilst he’d slept, because now as long as Aidan had breath in his lungs, he would never trust that
Sassenach
lackey again.

He had only just divested himself of his claymore, but he retrieved it now and re-sheathed it into his belt. Barefoot and bare backed, he might not feel their
guest
was worth bothering to dress for, but when he showed up with the claymore and little else on his back, his message should be clear.

He found the man—or rather boy—quivering in his hall. The lad swallowed a massive ball in his throat when he spotted Aidan entering the room. He was alone. No doubt David feared Aidan would run his messenger through and had sent the puniest of the lot so Aidan would pity the poor dolt.

It worked.

His sister had left Lachlann, his captain to guard the hall. He gave Lachlann a nod, telling the man without words to leave them. The boy would pose no threat, and his guard’s presence was not helping the lad's composure. However, Aidan’s sense of charity only went so far. He didn’t seat himself at the table, but stood instead, peering down at his
guest
. “This had better be good to have roused me from my bed,” he warned the boy.

The messenger craned his neck upward, wide-eyed, shuddering. His gaze slid to Aidan’s arms, to the blue paint he had yet to wash from his flesh—intricate markings that hailed back to their ancestors. Furious with the abduction of his sister, he had painted himself for war in the woad of his ancestors. He smiled thinly when the messenger met his gaze again.

“K-King D-David s-sends m-m-me,” he stammered.

Aidan nodded patiently, wondering ruefully if he looked down at the boy’s lap, whether his breacan would be soiled. The boy’s entire body was wracked by nervous spasms. “And?”

The messenger licked his lips and Aidan took pity on him. He shouted for his sister, his voice slicing through the silence like a dagger. Lael shot through the door as though she had expected to be needed, looking at first worried, but seeing that Aidan was unharmed, she smiled with relief. Aidan lifted a brow, letting her know that while he appreciated her concern, he was mildly offended by it. “The lad is thirsty,” he said. “Would ye be so kind as to fetch him a wee dram?”

His sister's lovely lips turned only slightly at the corners. She tossed a braid of black hair behind her back, and sauntered into the room. “Are ye certain he deserves our good
uisge-beatha
?” she asked haughtily.

Aidan ignored her barbed question. “Are ye hungry?” he inquired of the lad. The messenger nodded jerkily although Aidan doubted he truly understood a single word that had come out of his mouth. He turned to his sister again. “Bring him a wedge of bread as well.” ’Twas likely the youth had expended all his energy climbing the bluffs, and Aidan intended to dispatch him the instant he listened to his news, not trusting an emissary of David’s to remain under his roof—or in his vale—for a single night.

Lael gave him a twist of her lips, her bright green eyes, so like his own, flashing defiantly, but she did as he bade her, bringing the foodstuffs back from the pantry within minutes of his asking. This time, instead of leaving, she stood and watched, unwilling to leave again now that he had invited her in. Aidan was wise enough to know when and where to pick his battles—especially with the females of his household. Contrary wenches, all of them, but he loved their impassioned spirits.