Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
“That is mine,” she said, and reached out to snatch the stone from Keane’s hand. Her expression turned to one of outrage when he held it firmly in his grasp, studying her.
While her coldstones might be rare, they were hardly unknown to him.
Small and etched with symbols, they reminded him of knucklebones—a game wherein you placed four bleached bones from the ankles of a sheep into a sack.
Each bone had four sides, and each side a different shape, each side a different value.
Players tossed them from the sack, and the one with the greatest value won, but these coldstones were not quite so easily decipherable, and neither was the end result the winner of a game.
Betimes they were rolled and the fates were not so kind.
Una kept a purse full in her grotto, hauling them out whenever Aidan wished for her to seek answers from the gods.
The only difference between these and the ones Una possessed was that Una’s were not marked in the same manner.
Regardless, they were valuable enough to steal, particularly if one knew what they were and how to use them.
And whether Lianae knew such a thing or nay, she clearly understood the stones’ value because she’d fled without her shoes and took the purse, when her shoes might have served her better in this inclement weather.
And by the by, although she could have at least attempted to run away, she’d spent the past hour trolling the courtyard, searching for missing stones. In fact, she seemed far more concerned over the loss of her coldstones than she was about the company of strange men.
Smiling just a little, Keane released her stone, despite his suspicions and she closed her fist possessively about the bauble. Up close, it was perfectly clear there was a bruise on her face, right below the cheekbone.
Did she steal the stones? Were they payment for her favors? A bridal gift?
Somehow he didn’t think so.
He plucked a wad of red velvet cloth out of his belt, unwrapping it to show her a second small coldstone that had been caught in the folds of the purse she’d torn. He handed it to her. “Did you steal them?” he asked outright.
“Nay.”
Nevertheless, she seemed to blanch over the question, and he didn’t let it stop him from speaking his mind. “One must ask oneself why a bonny lass would run away, barefoot, dressed in her bride’s gown, with naught more than a cloak on her back and a velvet purse full of coldstones to her name.”
She blushed prettily, averting her gaze, her fist turning white over the stones she held in her hand. Keane watched as she placed both stones he’d produced into the hem of her gown. By now her cheeks were bright pink. Was she embarrassed because he’d called her bonny?
Or mayhap she has something more to hide?
Something more than coldstones…
“Why is that d’ ye think?”
Keane let his question hang in the air, along with the mist from his breath, until he was fairly certain she would never respond, and then decided to give her a rest—not that he was meant to get anything more from the lass if she didn’t wish to give it, for her shoulders were set as stubbornly as his sister Lael’s.
He recognized a brick wall whenever he met one.
Unless he meant to take a harsher stance, he might as well let it go… for now.
On the other hand, if he waited for her permission to tend her foot, she would lose the thing before the night was out.
Shrugging off his cloak, Keane produced his woolen breacan, and then, without any explanation for what he meant to do, he ripped a long strip from the end, and then another.
Glenna, the weaver, would threaten his manhood for ruining her good cloth, though if he asked her nicely enough, she would make him another.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a pair of slippers.”
She sounded stunned. “Why?”
Keane cast her a pointed glance, arching a brow. “To warm your feet perchance?”
“But why would ye do such a thing?”
“Because ye’re cauld and mayhap I dinna wish to see you lose your toes. Now give me your foot,” he demanded, as he moved to stoop before her, holding out his hand.
He could clearly see her pride warring with her discomfort. No doubt, it suited her not at all to be told what to do—even when it was for her own good. But at last, she relented. “Which one?”
“The right one.”
Untucking the left foot from beneath her gown, she gave it to him, and he nearly laughed at the contrary response. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was for any other reason than because she meant to prove a point—that she was still in charge.
But Keane’s smile faded the instant he inspected the soles of her feet.
They were filthy to be sure, but even with so much dirt and undercover of night, he could see the open sores that had formed along her heels and along the pads of her toes.
It wasn’t yet clear how far she’d come, but if he would believe her feet, they said it was far.
Swearing beneath his breath, Keane gently brushed the pads of his fingers along the soles of her feet, trying to remove what dirt he could.
Tomorrow, he would see her wash them in the burn.
At the moment, it was far more important to see them warmed.
He pushed up her skirt to begin binding the wool and froze at the sight of yet another bruise.
Angry and black, it encircled her ankle like a woad bracelet. He studied the mark for an awkward moment, realizing that there was only one way she could have gotten such a bruise. But it was no way for a husband to take his wife—no wonder she’d fled.
Liquid anger shot through his veins, though he said not a word. She was tense, waiting for Keane to remark, but he merely wrapped the wool about her foot and ankle, weaving the wool up, and folding the end above the bruise, taking care not to injure her any further.
And then, once again, he asked for her right foot. This time, she gave it to him without any challenge and he wasted little time in wrapping that foot as well, noting an even darker bruise in nearly the same spot.
Son of a whore.
Keane wanted to ask how she’d received them, but he didn’t truly need answers.
He knew enough to know that whatever the cause for those bruises, it had everything to do with that dress she was wearing and the bruise on her cheek.
If she’d purloined the stones in her flight, well, good for her.
By the gods, he would help her find the rest of her stones, and heaven help the fiend who would put a hand to a woman. Keane would break him in two.
“Thank you,” she said, once Keane was finished with the task.
Here, in the strange light surrounding them, her face appeared bloodless, making the bruise stand out all the more distinctly. Unable to keep himself from it, Keane reached out to touch the dark spot on her face, but she caught his hand. Their gazes met and locked.
“How di’ ye get it?” he asked, tempering his rage.
“More than likely from the fall I took because of you.” She shoved his hand away.
There was no way Keane had given her that bruise.
But he didn’t argue with her. She might, in fact, have a few more come morning, but the one on her cheek was already deep blue against her pallid skin.
It was at least a day old. Whatever the reason for her lie, she clearly didn’t wish to share her troubles with him.
Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know.
It was reasonable enough, although Keane couldn’t help her much if she would not speak about it.
Simply because he didn’t know her well enough did not mean he wouldn’t kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—husband or nay.
A fierce sense of protectiveness surged through him as he handed the girl his woolen breacan.
And then, retrieving his cloak, he rose to his feet.
“I’ll help ye search for the rest of your stones come morning.
Maybe then ye’ll be more amenable to telling me where ye’re from? ”
Her brow furrowed. “Mayhap,” she said.
And once again their gazes met and held.
“Or, at least, perhaps ye’ll say where it is ye wish me to take ye?”
This time she nodded.
“Will ye at least tell me your name, lass?”
Snowflakes fell upon her lashes, and still she held his gaze, blinking only once. “Lianae,” she said, after a long moment.
“Lianae,” Keane whispered, repeating the name with the same reverence he’d given Lilidbrugh. “I am Keane,” he told her, stopping short of giving her the name of his kin. For the first time in his life, he felt a man between worlds.
I belong nowhere, she’d said. Like her, he was the same. He belonged neither in Dubhtolargg, nor to the man whose livery he wore. So in this sense, they were kindred spirits.
But to Keane’s dismay, he spied a telltale gleam in her eyes, and the sight of it managed to further confuse him.
She gave him anger when she should have feared him, tears instead of gratitude.
Her legs were bruised, her cheek bruised, and the bottoms of her feet were full of sores.
Despite her pawky attitude, her silence was hardly the quality of a well-born woman.
All the women he’d met at David’s court—the ones who’d come dressed as she was—were so full of grievances that Keane had found himself wondering whether there were any women remaining, who were more like his sisters—strong in body and spirit.
“Well, Lianae,” he said, “You are free to go. But ’twill be caulder yet afore the night is through, and if it please ye, ye may share my pallet.”
Bracing himself for an argument that never came, he added, “To keep warm, ye ken? I have three sisters,” he reassured her, as though that fact alone should set her mind at ease.
Once again she nodded, and moisture twinkled in her eyes.