Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (2 page)

They both realized, just to prove a point, David would send him north sooner than the serving wenches could clear the table. There wasn’t a man among them who would defy the dún Scoti. And now that David had crossed Aidan, he himself would not face the man again. If anyone here thought himself braver than the King of Scotia, David would like to see him face the high chief of Dubhtolargg.

As David expected, Teviotdale gave a nervous shake of his head, and David was appeased.

“Bah!” exclaimed Padruig Caimbeul, who had the most to lose. It was his daughter whose fate they were discussing here today—a fate that might well end in her death at the blade of Aidan dún Scoti. “These are savage mountain folk,” he contended. “’Tis like as not they all shared the womb with a blade.” He shook his head with conviction. “And yet if there is a chance my Lìleas may bring them to heel, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

“Aye, but even if she could win him over,” argued another. “Who can guarantee the curse is real? The dún Scoti’s death is hardly guaranteed.”

“Her first husband is dead,” Caimbeul argued as though that in itself were evidence enough. He went on to say, “What manner of man dies by his own arrow through his pate save an idiot who is cursed? Nay, of a certain my daughter is marked by a witch, and any mon who loves her will hear Caoineag’s weeping within a fortnight of losing his heart.”

“So it was proclaimed... so it has already come to pass,” offered one of Caimbeul’s banner men.

Caoineag the Weeper, was the banshee spirit who haunted the lochs and waterfalls. It was said she could be heard wailing before a death within a clan—faerie tales, all of it, but David was growing desperate.

In the silence that ensued, the guttering torches began to hiss. The smoky room took a toll on David’s eyes and lungs. “Caimbeul, she is your only daughter. Are you willing to risk it?”

Caimbeul nodded soberly. “What have I to lose? No mon will have her now.”

David pierced him with a dark look. “Be advised... if the dún Scoti doubts her ’tis likely she will die.” He was glad he had never met the lass and could not put a face to her name. It would make his decision all the easier.

Caimbeul shrugged, and the room turned more somber yet. The pitch torches in their braces flickered nervously, awaiting David’s decision.

“The dún Scoti’s death is not guaranteed,” persisted his counselor.

“Accidents happen,” offered Rogan MacLaren, who had remained silent for most of the conversation. MacLaren's brother had been Lìleas’ first victim—apparently, far easier than fratricide. “There are other ways to ensure the end we desire," he suggested. "Mayhap Lìleas could be persuaded? She has a son...”

Every councilman knew what MacLaren was implying—David did not mistake him. They all knew precisely what MacLaren was capable of in the name of ambition. He could, in fact, make Lìleas kill the mountain Scot—if not to save herself, then perhaps to save her boy.

No one spoke to question MacLaren or to temper the dark thoughts.

“Cursed or nay, I can attest to the fact that no man can resist her,” MacLaren continued. “Stuart coveted her even knowing what he might lose.”

Caimbeul nodded. “Her suitors were many, despite the knowing... but that was before,” he confessed. And then he chortled to himself. “Ha! Now perhaps they do not seem so willing to test the hand of fate!” When no one else laughed, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and slid a wary look toward the King.

David eyed MacLaren meaningfully. “And yet you have resisted her, MacLaren, despite that she lives beneath your roof?”

MacLaren smiled, a subtle turn of his lips that never reached his eyes. “I like my willie well enough,” he said, “but I need the head on my shoulders a great deal more.” And then he added somewhat somberly, “I do not look upon her, nor do I speak to the lass. She and her son keep mostly to themselves.”

“Wise man!” the girl’s father declared. “I should have married her to you instead! At least you might have had more wits about you than to lose your heart to a witch!”

David slammed his tankard down upon the table. What manner of man said such things about his own daughter? Even he and his brothers, though they fought bitterly over Scotia's throne, would never have spoken an ill word about their womenfolk. They might have skewered the sons in their beds, but their daughters would never have suffered an instant of scorn. He could not abide a man who did not respect his womenfolk. He scratched his chin, pondering all available solutions. As yet, none with any chance of fruition had presented itself... save this. “What of her son?”

“We keep him, of course... reassurance,” MacLaren suggested.

David’s question was not overt, but could not be misunderstood. “Despite that he is your nephew?”

MacLaren glanced at Caimbeul. Caimbeul nodded almost imperceptibly. MacLaren returned his gaze to the king. “For the good of Scotland… aye, of course.”

“Look at it this way,” someone interjected. “If the curse holds true... the lass will go to the dún Scoti with those bonny violet eyes and he’llna be able to resist her. He’ll love her, plow her belly, then promptly die. And with the bastard out of the way, the mountain folk will succumb, for without their chieftain they are feeble as auld biddies.”

David was certain none of these fools had ever faced one, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And if the curse does not hold true... well, then...” The man looked toward MacLaren and lifted a shoulder.

“Tell dún Scoti you wish an alliance between kings! ’Twill feed his ego,” advised one of his counselors.

David nodded, warming to the scheme, despite a twinge of guilt. It was entirely possible Aidan would accept the lass, although he did not fool himself into believing he would crave the alliance. However, dún Scoti was far too arrogant to believe himself subject to the wiles of any woman, and particularly a woman his own kinfolk had cursed... and there was one thing that would make the girl far more attractive to Aidan than even sacks full of gold: She bore the blood of the man who had killed Aidan’s sire.

David glanced at Padruig Caimbeul. The old man, with his long, dirty gray beard, had once been a fierce warrior. He was still a cold bastard, bargaining away the life of his daughter for his own gain. But that wasn’t David’s concern. Many lives had been sacrificed for the sake of solidarity. Many more would succumb.

Alas, he had hoped that by awarding Aidan’s sister Catrìona to a man of his and Henry of England's choosing that these measures could be avoided. But there seemed no other choice. Aidan’s sister had wed a rebel Highlander, and David’s plans for alliances were all undone. If there was a chance to unite the clans without bloodshed, this was the way it must be done—through carefully planned marriage contracts and alliances—and he must endeavor to ignore even the most insistent of his guilty pangs. At the instant Aidan might not have his eye upon Scotia’s throne, but let him become disgruntled... Nay, the man was too unpredictable. Already, they hailed him as the last
mac na h-Alba’
—
the last true son of Scotia.
He sighed deeply, cursing Iain MacKinnon for a meddling fool.

Aye… but giving Lìleas MacLaren to Aidan could work… he might, in fact, accept the girl, if only as a manner to control her father.

Vengeance was a powerful motive.

So was a mother’s love.

He looked toward Rogan MacLaren. The man was hard enough to do what needed to be done when came the time. In truth, he thought MacLaren would relish the duty. David doubted he would even have to issue the command. All would transpire as it should, and David need never again consider his part in this ignoble deed, for everything would be concluded without his knowledge.

Caimbeul sat, looking smug, as certain as he was that he held the only viable answer at hand. The gleam in his eye was a hint of the gold payment he envisioned.

“Very well,” David relented, seeing no other way. “Offer Lìleas MacLaren to Aidan dún Scoti as a bride.”

T
wo goshawks soared high above the castle, skirting past each other like jousters at a match. Lìli thought perhaps they had followed the hunters who had returned this morning. The laird of Keppenach had not been present to join them on the hunt, but she knew he had also returned from wherever he had gone for the simple fact that the laughter about the keep had ceased abruptly and the mood turned grim to match its laird’s.

Never mind, for Lìli took her pleasures wherever she could find them. Today she had thoroughly enjoyed tending the herbs in her garden—alone, save for the company of her son.

“Look, Ma! Look what I found!”

Lìli peered back at the child who came scurrying after her from the garden path, hands cupped together and outstretched. At five, Kellen was the image of his Da. Unfortunately he was also the image of his Da’s brother. He reached her side, lifting up his prize to show her what he had discovered buried beneath the earth. “D’ ye know what it is?” he asked a little breathlessly. “Do ye, Ma?”

Lìli stooped to better see the etching on the flat, smooth stone. The design was in the shape of a rounded shield, knotted in quarters to symbolize the four corners of the earth. There were many such artifacts to be found in these parts, for Keppenach sat beneath the
Am Monadh Ruadh
—The Red Hills—where the Painted Ones had lived long before them. “It is a talisman of protection,” she said. “’Twill keep ye safe where’er ye go.”

His little brows furrowed. “A talsman?”

“A charm,” Lìli explained, noting the confusion in her son’s expression. His sweet brown eyes were deep and dark, burdened in a way no child’s should ever be. “Like the cross your Da wore aboot his neck.”

His face fell into a little frown that looked so much like his father’s it made her heart ache. “But my Da died,” he said plaintively. “So it didna work.”

Lìli felt a fierce pang over his words. Not the least for which, one day her son would grow up to learn that everyone else blamed her for her husband’s untimely death. Or rather, they blamed the curse that had been bestowed upon her as a child—that same odious curse she had once dared to hope was naught more than blather. Only now she had a dead husband to belie her doubts.

Her son made to throw away the stone. “Nay!” she said at once. “Keep it, Kellen.”

He stopped before tossing it, his eyes filling with alarm at having upset his mother. He was such a good boy, so full of affection—too full of worry.

“In this life we may use all the good will the world lends us. Never take for granted even the smallest of favors, my son.”

His little face screwed. “But it’s just a rock, Mama.”

Lìli tilted a patient look at her son. “All things are what you make them, son.” He peered up at her under furrowed brows, unconvinced. “Remember that naught ever comes to us by accident, naught is preordained.” She didn’t want her son growing up believing that his destiny lay in the hands of lesser men, or in the words of a foolish prophecy. “Our fates lie in our own hands.” She eyed the ancient carving. “Like that stone.”

He drew his hand back, examining the stone once more, inspecting it closer, his dark eyes full of skepticism.

“Keep it for another day,” she bade him. “You may find you need it.”

His little shoulders conceded defeat. “Verra well,” he relented, and then he smiled a little crookedly. “I’ll save it in my treasure box so no one will find it!”

Lìli smiled. His treasure box, a small wooden receptacle that had once belonged to his father, was where he hid all things he valued most. She patted him upon the head. “Good lad,” she said. “You are wise... even wiser than your Da.”

His dark eyes twinkled and a tiny, sad smile emerged upon his lips. She loved him fiercely in that moment, with a love that was pure and true. One day, she would see him free of his uncle’s influence.

“Lìli!” a familiar voice rang out.

Speak of the devil.

Recognizing the laird’s voice, her son stiffened visibly. Lìli touched him upon the head, tempering her reaction for his sake. She pushed him gently away. “Go,” she urged him. “Await me in the garden.” He stood firmly rooted to the spot, but Lìli could not bear for him to witness even one more unkind word from his uncle's cruel mouth. “Go now!” she demanded.

“Yes, mama,” he said, but shuffled his feet, hesitant to leave her.

She could hear Rogan’s boot steps nearing, his footfall heavy with purpose. “Kellen,” she pleaded quietly.

Reluctantly, Kellen turned away, crushing his newly found talisman within his tiny fist, and it seemed to Lìli that as he walked away he bowed his head and prayed over it. He looked back at her only once, with the greatest turmoil in his gaze, and her heartache deepened. This was no place for a child to live—not in the shadow of so much bitterness.

When Lìli was satisfied her son would not return, she turned at last to face her tormentor—the man who bore the same blood as her husband, the same blood as her son. “Rogan,” she said in greeting. But that was all the pleasantry she could muster.

He held his arms outstretched, asking for an embrace that she had never once deigned to give. The thought of touching him, even for the space of a hug, turned her stomach foul. When she did not fling herself into his arms, his gaze unshuttered, revealing the full measure of rancor behind the dark mirrors of his eyes. “I need to speak with you,” he said, his tone clipped. “Shall we walk in the garden?”