Page 19 of Highland Storm

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.

Keane turned away, lest he shame her by remaining any longer and witnessing her tears. She was proud, he sensed. And worse, he suspected his kindness had somehow wounded her. He didn’t like to ken what that revealed.

The instant he was gone, Lianae swiped away her tears. She was her father’s daughter, she reminded herself, and a daughter of Moray should not cry.

As the night grew darker yet, a curious halo blanketed the ruins, but the glow was less the blush of firelight and more a lucent quality, not unlike the illusion of daylight on a snowy landscape. A coat of frost on the moss-covered stones gave the ruins a jewel-like ambience. It was a strange sight, stranger yet for the company she kept.

He knew what her charm stones were. The fact was not lost to Lianae. She took one out of her hem to study the marks.

Her Viking ancestors had used rune stones like these to read fortunes, but each small stone would have held a different rune… unlike these.

Could they be payment to the Other Realm?

Now that their king was a man of faith, the practice of leaving stones on the eyes of the dead was past, but they had once been used as payment to Sluag, the god of the Other Realm. For those still in the land of the living, the stones drew upon the forces of the Other Realm to heal the sick. And still, for a very few, who lived betwixt this world and the next, the stones were said to be conduits…

Some were fashioned into larger stones, and used as keek stanes. But Uhtreda’s were not so large. They were the size of little pebbles, each bearing a single mark—two moons and a lightning rod betwixt…

Perhaps they could be used for healing?

In any case, they were now hers and Lianae refused to give them up. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in taking them from her—nor even the least bit in her, if the truth be told. Once the Scots were all tucked into their pallets, she half expected the one called Keane to call her to his bed, but he did not. True to his word, he left her free to come and go as she pleased, but Lianae had no wish to venture out alone, despite the feeling that her brothers might be near.

Mayhap tomorrow.

Heaving a sigh, she got up off the stoop and made another sweep of the area for her stones. Come morning, when they could see a bit clearer, Keane had promised to help her find the rest, but until then… she eyed his pallet longingly.

She was searching in vain.

Despite the strange glow they were surrounded by, there was not enough light to conduct a proper search, particularly now with the falling snow.

It was only by chance that Keane had discovered the one beneath his boot, perfectly round and smooth. After seeing the one caught within the folds of her purse, he’d realized what she was searching for. Come morning, the remaining stones would all be buried at least two-feet deep and no one would find them again until spring.