Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (12 page)

And mayhap I am.

The men restraining her dragged her past Broc’s cell, before the one adjoining his, and whilst one stood unlocking the door, the other two brutally restrained her. She had no fight left in her at the instant, but this they could not know.

“Ow!” she complained. “Ye’re hurting me!”

“Ye should ha’ thought o’ that before attacking your king!”

Hearing that news, Broc let his forehead fall against the bars. “Ach, nay Lael,” he said again, but he spared her any more words whilst the Butcher’s men were in their company.

“He is
not
my king,” Lael persisted, discovering a bit of pluck. “My people do not bend the knee to the sons of MacAilpín. I do not hail from Scotia!”

“Aye?” The cell door opened and one of her guards shoved her inside. “An’ who the bloody hell are ye folk anyway?” he asked, slamming the cell door shut behind her. “Perchance ye hail from the land of faeries?”

The other guards guffawed.

“Because unless ye do,” the man persisted, “if ye were born in these Highlands, then your as much a Scot as me—crazy bitch.”

At his words Lael might have thrown herself at the door, save that she was done behaving angrily and irrationally. “Nay. I am
not
.”

She wanted them to know: She hailed from a lineage as old as the Highland hills. Her people had fled long ago to keep themselves free. They’d survived wave after wave of pillages from the north, and the endless politicking of the tribes after the son’s of Aed and Constantine returned from Erin two centuries past. Her people were the last of the Painted Ones—those the Roman’s called Pechts. They did not recognize Scotia, nor any of its kings. They were survivors, and they would
never
abandon the Old Ways. She would keep her faith until her dying breath, because she was a child of old Alba, a sister to the wind, a daughter of the forest. Moreover, her clansmen were the guardians of the one true stone of destiny vaulted deep in the Red Hills. She was
not
a crazy bitch!

“Lael,” Broc interjected, trying to calm her.

She turned to face her friend, a bitter loneliness creeping in so far removed from her own kin. His eyes pleaded with her. But he did not know her either. Hot tears pricked at her eyes. She longed for her brother’s console and his protection. Broc, as big as he was, could scarce help her now—he could not even help himself! Nay, she’d failed them both.

“They know not who I am, Broc Ceannfhionn,” she whispered brokenly. “And neither do you.”

Apparently, it was not enough they had very nearly hanged her this morn; the daft wench had gone after the one man who might have pardoned her out of hand.

His face mottled with anger—or perhaps with fever—David quit the hall, grumbling something about ruined tunics.

There was little Jaime could do for the lass now.

Her fate was in David’s hands.

Jaime was sworn by oath to uphold David’s law. But on the off chance that it might make a difference he sent dinner to the laird’s chamber. A hearty meal would go a long way toward soothing the king’s ire, and the sooner he received it the better, but be damned if had any inkling why he felt so compelled to save the vixen when she clearly had a death wish for herself. She might be his prisoner, but the thought of her blood adorning the edge of his blade made his supper sour in his gut.

Once the hall was returned to order, he mounted the tower steps to see to David. Fortunately for the lass, he knew the King to be a just man. If Jaime gave him a bit of time, not too much, and filled his belly with ale and food, perhaps it would settle his ire enough to see the girl properly ransomed to her family, perhaps with a promise of fealty. Thankfully, by the time Jaime arrived and knocked upon the door, the king’s voice was much gentler. “Come in,” he said.

Jaime shoved open the heavy oak door, and found the king seated before a lit brazier aside a small table replete with victuals. A tankard of ale froze halfway to his thin lips and he held it in midair, waiting for Jaime to enter and close the door. He looked tired, careworn, and far older than his forty-two years. It seemed to Jaime that the past two years alone had aged him far more than the ten before. Once he was certain Jaime came alone, he said, “She’s off her bloody head!”

Jaime gave him a nod and a grim smile. “She’s a madbit, certainly,” he agreed, and then dreading the coming discussion, he wandered over to the laird’s bed, examining the hefty furs as David’s gaze followed him across the bower.

Aside from a peek into the door, this was Jaime’s first time in the laird’s chamber and he found it opulent by most standards. The covers were plush and well stitched. Doubtless, they would keep him warm throughout the winter—unlike his prisoners down in that cell. The cold alone would brittle their bones.

Off her head, indeed—that, or she had cause to be angry with David and Jaime considered that a moment, for he suspected she might.

Certainly she seemed to know David, and David seemed to know her as well. Jaime was hardly privy to every interaction David had with the men he sought to rule.

“The room is well appointed,” the king remarked, mistaking the turn of Jaime’s thoughts. “I suspected MacLaren indulged himself at my expense.”

Jaime shrugged. “I did not know the man.” In fact he had never met Donnal MacLaren’s youngest grandson. He knew him by reputation alone, but as reputations went, Jaime had nary a stone to throw.

The king blew a hefty sigh. The intensity of it seemed to snuff the oxygen from the room. The candles on their braces flickered desperately, choking on their wicks. “I wish I dinna,” the king confessed.

Jaime discarded the furs upon the bed, wondering how well King David knew Rogan MacLaren. David wasn’t always quite as forthcoming as Jaime might have wished. The king had a grand scheme though he wasn’t particularly inclined to share it. However, knowing his character, he had long ago placed his faith in his king; he didn’t simply serve David, he trusted, respected, and aye, he loved the man.

In the end he realized that unlike some, all David did, he did because he believed it would bring peace to those he ruled. In fact, some day Jaime was certain they would name him a saint, for his patience and benevolence would be far more apparent in hindsight. In the meantime, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh’s grandson was bound to earn the animosity of those who didn’t understand.

Outside the tower window, snow gathered on the sill, barred entrance to the room by Roman-styled glass—a rare luxury in any demesne, but certainly unlike anything Jaime had ever seen outside of the King’s chambers in London… or apart from the ancient Roman monasteries. The glass was certainly unexpected this far north and in such a mean demesne no less. For an instant, he tried to remember whether the other windows were adorned in such a way.

“Come,” David bade him. “Sit and drink a spell.” He motioned toward the empty chair at the table and gave a discreet little cough, not so deep as before.

Pre-occupied with the girl, Jaime nevertheless wandered over and sat down and David pushed an empty tankard toward him, then filled it with what Jaime presumed was ale.

“I gave the cretin sacks full of gold,” David disclosed. “And this is how he put it to use.” He waved a hand about the expanse of the room, clearly disgusted by the prospect. “The rest of the keep is as unkempt as a donkey’s arse,” he grumbled. “’Tis clear enough the man cared not a whit for anyone but himself.”

A tiny smile played at the corners of Jaime’s lips. “At least he had his priorities,” he said.

“Greedy bastard,” David replied, and then he downed his cup and poured himself another. “His grandfather deserved what you gave him, never doubt it.”

Jaime winced, staring down at his cup.

“In much the same vein, I hope Lael’s brother skewered Rogan through and left him to rot.”

Lael.

He knew her name, Jaime noted, but David had not been present when she’d revealed it to him. “I take it ye know her well?”

David peered up at him then, lifting one dark brow. “Drink up,” he commanded, avoiding the question.

Hardly in the mood for libations, Jaime nevertheless reached for his cup, realizing David had something difficult to say. Foremost in his thoughts was that he’d somehow managed to save the lass’s neck from the noose only to bloody his sword with her head. Then again… why should he care what happened to the changeling? The vixen was none of his concern.

“I trust ye,” David announced. “More than most—certainly more than Montgomerie, the bloody turncoat!”

Jaime nodded soberly. Piers de Montgomerie was one of the first barons David sent north to hold Scot’s land. It was yet unclear where the man’s loyalties lay. Apparently he’d gone and wed some Brodie lass, and then he’d stood against David, siding with her brothers. Alas, that was a chance David must take whenever he sent a strong leader north; no man could hold these lands who did not put his people first.

“It pleases me greatly to see you get your due,” the king said after a time.

Jaime lifted his tankard. “For that I thank you, Your Grace.”

David waved a hand, dismissing his gratitude. “No need for formalities betwixt us here,” he insisted. “Out there, perhaps, but in here my farts are no less pongy,” he said, and placed a hand to his belly. “Particularly after a bit of bad haggis.”

Jaime laughed, remembering Lael’s words. “A toast to the blowing of wind,” he offered, lifting up his tankard.

He took a hearty swig, choking unexpectedly on the fire that ignited in the back of his throat. Cursing roundly, he spat the rancid liquid back into the cup.

David guffawed. “Yegods!” he exclaimed. “I ha’ seen ye wipe blood and guts from your lips with scarce a grimace and ye canna down a dram.” He snorted with laughter, then rattled out a few discreet coughs.

It was on the tip of Jaime’s tongue to ask what ailed the man, though he was entirely distracted by the liquid within his cup. Now he could see it fuming beneath his nose. “What the hell is it? Witch’s brew?”

The King smiled. “
Uisge beatha
—the water of life. An auld woman south of Dundee said it would root out my ague, but ye’re as much a Scot as me, Jaime. Dinna ye recall the potation?”

Jaime was certain he had never once tried a single sip or it may have put hair on his tongue. “Border lords dinna consider themselves Scots,” he reminded his king.

And it was true. Alongside Donnal MacLaren, his grandsire had raided both Scots and English alike, and for the most part, Jaime considered himself English as well, but he wasn’t prepared to argue the point just now.

David raised his cup. “Reivers, all!” he exclaimed. “And yet feckless as they may be, it was the border lords who first came to my aid.”

“Whenever it suited them,” Jaime contended.

In his humble opinion, if someone wasn’t for the king they were against him and the border lords tended to give their loyalties to the man with the biggest sack of gold. For the most part they were kings unto themselves, beholden to none—not even his friends. The instant his grandsire kicked up his toes, it took Donnal MacLaren all of one week to ride out against him—the time it took to gather men and saddle horses.

“My father was English, as was your mum,” Jaime argued, preferring to align himself with relations who understood the meaning of loyalty.

David set his tankard down upon the table. “Pah! You knew your sire for but a day. Your minny was a Scot,” he asserted, and then he poured himself another dram. “I chose ye for this task, Jaime, because you’re a bloody Scot. ’Tis time ye recalled how to be one!”

Even were Jaime inclined to argue, he could not. He’d had a single encounter with the man who’d sired him… at the age of six—an awkward meeting after which his mother confessed him the truth. In many ways, David was far more a father to Jaime than his own had been. Regardless, he did not feel like a Scot. Whatever memories he had that were pleasant were all fostered beneath David’s and Henry’s tutelage.

David quaffed his whisky, eyeing Jaime’s full cup, lingering in his hand. “Drink up,” he demanded once again.

“God’s breath,” Jaime swore. He dreaded the taste of the rancid
whisky
, though not so much as he dreaded the inevitable return of the discussion to the lass now sitting in his gaol. In his gut, he realized David had been pondering what to do with her from the instant she’d pummeled him down in the hall. Reluctantly, he took a swig, and fortunately, this time it went down easier.

David grinned. “That’s my boy,” he said.

Jaime smiled, and was forced to confess, if only to himself, that the warmth sidling into his gut wasn’t entirely due to the libation. With some chagrin, he must confess that David’s endearments made him feel like a wee lad… a notion that was nearly forgotten to him as a man.

David seemed to sense the turn of his thoughts. “Your Da would have been proud, Jaime, your minny too.” He eyed Jaime over the rim of his glass. “She was friend to my Maude, did I ever say?”

Jaime nodded, taking another sip and turning the
whisky
over with his tongue. It wasn’t so bad, after all. In fact, it left a rather pleasant taste on the tongue.