Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
By morning, the entire world seemed blanketed in white, with a watery sun that teased through heavy, bloated clouds. The ruins were half buried beneath a layer of snow so high that it was difficult to say where the ruins ended and the landscape began.
The surrounding trees were painted with frost, evergreen boughs that sagged with heavy burdens.
Every time the wind blew, great gobs of ice shook loose from the trees.
The fickle weather was turning yet again, but if they should set out now, in this storm, they’d very likely freeze their bollocks off before midday—something Keane was disinclined to do, particularly now that they were so snuggly and warm.
Down in the courtyard, amidst the half tumbled walls, the crew remained sheltered from the wind.
Burrowed beneath the covers, with a warm body at his side, he’d slept like a warm, lazy dog, and as yet, most of his men had yet to rise, clearly reluctant to burrow out of their pallets.
Oblivious to the continuing flurries, a red squirrel sat burrowing near his pallet, its rufous tail twitching as it searched for pine nuts beneath the snow.
Oddly, it reminded him of Lianae searching for her stones.
The squirrel scurried away once Keane adjusted the covers—more’s the pity.
With an empty stomach, he fancied the little beast roasting on a spit for their breakfast. Alas, but he was far too content to leave his bed, and much too aware of the woman slumbering along beside him…
Lianae.
It was a good name, lovely and strong, much like her.
He might never have guessed for an instant that beneath her fearless facade she’d hid the evidence of abuse.
What kind of man harmed a woman?
If Keane had the chance to face the monster, he would give him cause to rue his actions. It was impossible to know whether he’d taken her against her will, but marks like those meant only one thing… at the very least the bastard had tried.
For his part, Keane intended to reward the girl’s trust in him by proving that not all men were rutting beasts…
At the least he was trying.
His lust was difficult to deny, when his cock stood fully erect and throbbing beneath the covers. Despite his best intentions, his morning erection was not a function of his sex.
The scent of Lianae’s hair was like a philter—a love potion that spoke to his body in a language that clearly it understood. It had been a long time since he’d craved so desperately to put his old chap to better use…
Oblivious to his struggle for control, Lianae squirmed beneath the covers, moving a little closer to the heat of his body.
Keane resisted the urge to reach out and draw her close.
She had no inkling what she was doing, he realized, and waking her was the last thing he wished to do.
But if she should happen any closer, she would quickly discover that not all his swords were safely sheathed…
He inched backward yet again—for the half dozenth time—reconsidering the wisdom in rising sooner rather than later, if for no other reason than to speak privately with Cameron.
As yet, only Cameron was up and tending the fire—or rather, more accurately, preparing it for their departure. He was pushing snow up and over the dying embers, his shoulders peppered with flakes he didn’t bother to shake off. He worked quietly, brooding all the while.
They had yet to speak about what had happened, but Keane wasn’t all that concerned.
They had been friends too long and if Cameron ever meant to win Cailin’s hand, he would never dare challenge Keane—particularly since everything Cameron ever wanted, he wanted solely for one reason: to win Cailin’s favor.
And he could have her still, if only the man would realize that he already had all he needed to win her favor.
His sister didn’t care about riches. Nor did she care whether a man was titled.
She, like all of his sisters, were simpler in their requirements.
They wanted strong, loyal men who would care for them, and not much else.
Until Cameron realized as much, Cailin would never have him—never mind Aidan.
It was never his laird brother who would make this decision for Cailin.
But this was not something Keane could easily explain to a man who was unaccustomed to putting women before him, particularly so long as Cailin remained undecided, because, to a man, Aidan’s reluctance to accept Cameron was the one thing that seemed to be saving his pride.
Cameron was convinced that was the only reason Cailin had not yet fallen into his arms. But he was wrong.
No one told his sisters what to do—whom to marry—and if that were so, Lael and Cat would never have wed outside the vale.
Nay, Cameron still had much to learn.
In truth, Keane was far more reluctant to buck Aidan’s authority than any of his sisters had ever been, for he had once been his brother’s heir.
Not anymore.
Now, he had… what? Not even a sense of purpose, if the truth be known.
Aside from listening to Cameron’s aspirations and visions of grandeur—the home he’d like to build for Cailin, the children they might raise together—he was jaded and bored with life.
Back in the vale, he’d withered in the role he’d been provided, and even this mission had proven mind-numbing, for despite David’s fears—that with Henry of England preoccupied in France, the sons of óengus were scheming to restore the Mormaerdom—all was quiet in the northern territories.
Trying not to think about the woman snuggled beneath his furs, he examined their surroundings.
In the cold morning light, Lilidbrugh was a desolate place.
No wonder his men were so eager to leave.
They should much prefer to be home with their families, where the hearth fires blazed and the auld reekie soup was bubbling in a pot.
Like Keane, their hearts were not in this task, no matter what David’s promises.
Those promises could not fill their bellies at the instant.
Nor did they warm the bones, and for his part, Keane wondered what he was doing serving a king he did not trust. The girl lying beside him had given him the only frisson of excitement he’d encountered since beginning his service to the crown.
Ten years ago, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim had stolen his sister Catrìona from her bed in the middle of the night.
He took her south, intending to award her to the English as a ward of their court.
This was not a man who engendered trust, and yet, these few years past, he had not known the man to be intentionally cruel.
He made his decisions, so he claimed, for the good of the realm.
This was something Keane might well believe, despite that he disagreed with the methods.
Like a game of chess, he moved pieces about his board.
But for every decision he made, there were good folk who paid—like his brother.
Aidan’s marriage to Lìleas MacLaren could so easy have gone wrong.
On pain of losing her firstborn son, Lìli had been sent to murder Aidan in his bed.
Had she not fallen in love with Aidan, and had the integrity and fortitude to come forward, all might have gone so differently…
Keane would have been laird of their clan.
Thankfully, he was not.
But there was another side to Scotia’s king, for when David might have exacted justice over the taking of Keppenach, he had shown Lael and Broc Ceannfhionn infinite mercy—and more.
Instead of hanging them as he might have—as they had attempted to do before Jamie Steorling cut them free—he gave Broc a seat at Dunloppe and Lael was commanded to wed the Butcher, King David’s most trusted commander.
These days his sister Lael seemed to have traded her knives for wee bairns, chasing them about, whilst her laird husband continued counseling his king.
But Keane had no place in this arrangement.
He was a border guard, nothing more. Only now, he feared he craved else…
Lianae stirred beside him and Keane tried not to think of her arse, the shape of which, he now knew intimately, despite the barrier of her gown—and despite the fact that he kept edging backward, for she kept nestling it sweetly against him, and he had no need to touch her to picture the outline of it printed so neatly against his thighs.
She wiggled backward, yet again, and Keane swore softly beneath his breath. By the sins of Sluag, he was but a man.
He scooted backwards, away from her, the very instant he felt his cock stir, and he’d kept scooting back again every time she sleepily sought the crook of his thighs.
With the wind whistling overhead, Lianae was afeared to come out from the blankets, so she snuggled deeper.
Warm and comfy as she was, it was easy to pretend she was still at home with her mother and father, and that her elder brothers had never gone to war.
Her dreams this morning were of Lulach—at ten, when Lianae was nine.
They were laughing together near the silos, watching kittens chase the hens from their feed, but it was so long ago now that such innocence had been a part of their lives.
Oh, Lulach…
Her heart ached.
Why?
Rather than make the Earl pay for what he’d done to Elspeth, he’d doomed Lianae to the same fate!
Her father would be so ashamed, and her minny—couldn’t he remember what they’d done to her?
Aye, she had died of grief, forsooth, but they had driven her to it, taunting her with images of her bonny sons’ heads rotting on a field of dead.
They’d claimed her sons’ heads were put upon pikes, and left to mark the place where MacBeth’s murdering heirs had been vanquished at long last.
Didn’t Lulach remember?
Why couldn’t he remember?