Chapter 5 #2
How she would dearly love to see the Scots ousted and William fitz Duncan returned to England where he belonged.
More than that, fitz Duncan deserved to die, but Lianae was loathe to offer him good Moray soil to lie beneath.
Rather he should take himself back to England.
She would rather freeze to death in the hands of these eejit Scotsmen than leave and find herself at William’s mercy.
They were no doubt still searching hill and dale, if for no other reason than to retrieve Uhtreda’s charm stones.
Like a godsend, the purse had been abandoned in the bathhouse last night.
The Earl’s shrewish mother oft used the old baths, and in their rush to secure it for Lianae before the priest arrived, they must have ushered the old woman out.
The purse would have been left by one of her servants, and once Uhtreda discovered them missing, she would no doubt rage, for ’twas said she used the stones to hide her age.
The very notion made Lianae roll her eyes.
More like than not, whatever magik Uhtreda possessed, it was rather due her father’s purse.
After all, she was the daughter of the Earl of Northumbria and the consort of a king.
Fitz Duncan’s sire would also have left the woman with means.
Lifting a finger to the sore spot on her cheek, she wondered where a man like fitz Duncan had learned to be such a fiend.
As injuries went, the bruise was inconsequential—more so than the pain in her heart.
But betimes she could still feel the blow of the Earl’s fist after she’d told him she’d rather die than wed a traitor like him.
That was when he’d shoved her down… on the bed…
next to her sister… And he would have taken her there, save that Lulach’s wife walked in on them and ran to tell and her brother had come running.
He’d asked fitz Duncan to wait.
To wait?
To wait!
Well, he could wait until the end of his days—until he turned cold in the ground and the worms feasted upon his dirty todger. Come what may, she was never going to wed that odious man—and damn Lulach for a greedy fool.
She was in the midst of repositioning herself, crossing her legs and tucking the gown and cloak beneath her like a tent, when the “wolf man” came to offer sustenance. He held the meal in his hands, wrapped in a napkin.
“What is it?”
“Food,” he answered simply, responding as her mother might have.
Lianae frowned. She glanced over at the dark hole in the middle of the courtyard. He was not a very civil looking man. Could it be all those changelings had been left here for him? “Ye dinna eat babies perchance?”
“Hardly.” His smile twisted like that of a mischievous boy’s. “’Tis merely horse,” he said.
Judging by the way he’d tended his beloved mare, Lianae doubted the veracity of that claim, but she peered over at the tarp anyway, silently counting the horseflesh beneath. She counted three heads before she heard him laugh—a rich sound that sent a strange frisson down her spine.
“Horse o’ the woods,” he clarified.
Lianae screwed her face. “Horse o’ the woods?”
“Grouse. They are big and stupid, and slow, but tasty nonetheless—especially given the alternative.”
“What alternative might that be?”
“Starving,” he replied with a grin.
Amusing. But by damn, Lianae refused to laugh, despite that his smile fairly took her breath away.
He was a bit too handsome when he did that.
But, aye, she was hungry, indeed. Reaching out for the napkin, she accepted the gift of food, thanking him softly—although she might have said resentfully, but aside from plucking her up from the ground and then tossing her back down, he had done little to offend her.
Even that wasn’t quite the truth of it, for she’d whacked him aside the head and hurled herself free, after which, he’d merely stared down at her as though she had been the perpetrator.
And now he stood there, rubbing his head, peering down at her with that wolfish face, and she had the smallest instant of regret.
Not even his pouty little friend had done aught to harm her. They had simply let her be, whilst they all tended to their business, and not a one save those two had even spoken to her as yet. For all Lianae knew, she had startled them as much as they had startled her…
But it begged the question: What were these people doing in a place like Lilidbrugh? It crossed her mind that perhaps they too might be searching for her brothers… but that wouldn’t be likely, now would it?
For a long moment, the wolf man stood, watching her eat and Lianae tried to ignore him—not such a difficult a task, for once the grouse was in front of her face, she was suddenly ravenous.
She hadn’t had a bite to eat since her sister’s wedding two days before.
And although they probably would have served yet another “feast” from the leftovers, for Lianae’s nuptials, Lianae hadn’t remained to see it.
How convenient that must be.
Fitz Duncan murdered one wife and had himself a spare. He would have served two feasts for the price of one.
Ach, but, from the instant she’d left Kinneddar Castle, she hadn’t even stopped long enough to think about her feet, evidenced by the sorry state of them now.
At one point, she’d feared they might even catch her, but then she’d slipped into the pinewoods, and for a long, long while, she’d followed the stream, covering her scent to elude the hounds.
That was probably where she’d cut her feet—in the burn.
Unconcerned with manners, she devoured the food he gave her, thinking to herself that grouse was the finest bird she ever did eat.
Thank heavens they were big and stupid and slow!
Fascinated, Keane watched the girl tear into the grouse wing as though she hadn’t partaken of sustenance for weeks.
What a contradiction she was, dressed in English finery, with no complaints for her bare feet. She ate like a waif and talked like a royal. She had the bearing of a soldier and the diction of a queen. “You should let me look at your foot,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him, her lips glossy with grease, and he had the strangest desire to lick them clean—a ludicrous notion, and he wondered if the girl had somehow addled his brain with the blow to his head.
Peering up at him, she held the grouse before her, frozen in her posture, looking like an animal ready to snarl. “Can ye no’ see well enough from where you’re standing?”
Keane lifted a dark brow. She had a razor sharp tongue—not unlike his sisters.
“I meant only that ye should allow me tend to your wound, lass. Your foot appears to be bleeding.” He nodded at the surrounding snow, except that with a fresh layer, the spots were very nearly gone.
“I dinna need for ye to tend me,” she said stubbornly, and returned to her dinner, trying hard to ignore him.
Stubborn lass.
“Ye must be cauld?” he asked, refusing to be ignored.
He slid next to her upon the steps, insinuating himself whether it please her or nay.
In fact, she reminded him quite a lot of Catrìona, with her flashing eyes and gold-red mane.
None of his sisters would ever give an inch, unless you proved to them why they should.
The problem therein being that no progress ever could be made, so long as no one ever took a chance.
This was something Cameron had yet to learn.
He folded his hands between his knees, well aware that she was watching him from the corner of one eye. But he was not a threat to her and she needed his help, whether or not she wished to admit it or nay—and clearly she did not.
Seemingly oblivious to his presence beside her, she continued to eat, ignoring Keane, and he caught the scent of her hair so near: rosemary and lavender, a heady combination… only a wee bit more so than her supper. His stomach grumbled.
He’d given up his share, unwilling to leave the girl without or to go out and hunt for more.
Nor would he ask his men to do so, not tonight.
Considering their wariness of this place, if he allowed anyone to leave, they might never return.
Unfortunately, now that he and Cameron were divided, if he failed now and allowed anyone to leave, David would demand their heads for abandoning their posts, and their fate would rest upon Keane’s shoulders.
As for Cameron… he peered over at his auld friend, watching him whittle away at his stick, trying to make himself a new shaft, though he lacked the skill.
Keane had many times attempted to teach him the proper way, but along with a fierce pride, Cameron MacKinnon sometimes lacked a bit of wit.
He felt sorry for the man, but whether it was intended or nay, the balance of power had shifted here today.
Something had changed.
Until today, Keane hadn’t even considered taking what was offered, and the only thing that had kept him at his post was the simple fact that he no longer had aught remaining for him at home—and for Cameron, who’d hoped to rise to his own fiefdom someday, so Aidan might find him worthy of Cailin’s hand.
Now he sat in contemplative silence, considering what to do, watching a strange girl eat her food…
Keane was five and twenty and little more than a rover, with no bed to call his own and no chance of ever providing for a wife.
A distant memory surfaced—of a girl he’d once loved… but he was no longer that fresh-faced boy, the simple lad with a pure heart who’d loved a simple girl.
Keane studied the girl seated beside him.
For some reason, she made his thoughts wander to places they ought not go…
But it wasn’t simply her look. She was lovely, it was true, but it was more the fire in her eyes he was drawn to—something poor Meara had never possessed, though his sisters had aplenty.
He sensed that, like his sisters, if a man could win the lass’s prickly heart, she would make a fine, fine bride.
Alas, she belonged to someone else already…