Page 27 of Highland Storm

More than aught, Keane wanted to help her find her damned stones. In terms of gold, they were worth more than his horse, but this was not the time. The storm was worsening and they had one more mouth to feed and no rations to sustain them. As it was, Dunloppe was within two day’s reach.

“We will come back,” he said, and meant it. “I swear.”

“We?”

“We,” he affirmed with a nod. “Ye have my word, Lianae.” And with that promise, she gave him a nod and then her hand.

Chapter

Nine

We.

The way he’d said the word was strange to Lianae’s ears.

Whilst her father and mother still lived, there had been a sense of we, but that we had been different somehow. Her father had been a leader of men, a lesser Ri, a minor king, and her mother, a woman who’d cared for his brood. That we was never the sum of two.

She contemplated this fact as she rode with Keane in the saddle. She rode behind him, his body shielding her from the worst of the storm. In keeping to the woodlands, they avoided the wind, but it also shielded them from whatever bit of sun there was to be had. Cold and wet, shivering, Lianae leaned against his back for warmth.

But she would not fool herself.

Wherever it was they were going, she was a heartbeat away from being returned to the Earl—like so much chattel. There were few enough of her people remaining and fewer yet who would be willing to risk the Scot’s king’s wrath. And yet staying in Lilidbrugh was not in her best interest either, whether or not Keane kept his promise to retrieve her charm stones.

After a mild beginning, winter was a raging boar. Every minute grew colder than the last. The simple flurries that had graced the sky yesterday evening had become cutting sheets of ice, bombarding them from a black and blue sky. They couldn’t gather the camp quickly enough, and in a short time they were mounted and on the way.

Through it all, Lianae might as well have been a specter, for it was as though she were invisible to everyone, but Keane. None of the other men ever dared to look at her, much less talk to her or treat her unkindly, and she had a feeling she knew why.

Keane.

They feared him.

It was impossible to see aught past the length of one’s hand, but she knew there were fourteen men in all. She spied only six—the one called Cameron, who every so oft cast Lianae dubious glances, and five others. These handful of men remained nearest to Keane, riding in a pack. The others lagged behind, forming yet another. And even surrounded by trees, the wind blew so furiously that Lianae had little choice but to put her arms about Keane’s chest, tucking her cloak beneath her arms to keep it from billowing in the wind.

This morning’s embrace had been so vastly different and the memory of it continued to warm her cheeks albeit nothing else. Fortunately, if he thought less of her for the liberties she had taken, he didn’t say so, nor did he behave as though Lianae had offended him. If aught, he seemed even more solicitous, reaching back now and again to steady her in the saddle and to pull her legs close. Lianae didn’t bother trying to speak to him, not even to thank him. Despite their proximity, he wouldn’t have heard her anyway. Like an angry banshee, she heard only the wind shrieking past the trees.

Cold wind rushed up her skirts, and she tried to adjust them now and again so that they wrapped more firmly about her legs—as much to hide her bruises from prying eyes as to keep her legs warm. But no matter how many times she made the adjustment, her skirt billowed out with the wind, whipping furiously. And with every furlong they rode, she felt the loss of her stones more acutely. More than a few times she’d wanted to check to see that the remaining stones were still safe in her hem, but it was all she could do to stay warm in the saddle. Thankfully, Keane had allowed her keep his thick woolen breacan and her greatest solace was that she had his thick wool still wrapped about her feet. Savage or nay, the man was a godsend after all.

It was early afternoon before the winds began to ease and the sky turned some color besides rude grey. Finally, a hint of sun peeked out from between somber clouds and through the pine trees. After a while, a small grey hare raced before them, and Lianae’s stomach complained loudly. “We’ll stop soon,” he said, patting her on the leg.

Realizing that he’d very likely heard her belly grumble, Lianae’s cheeks burned. “Thank you,” she said, and was grateful for his care. He had already done more for her than most men might do under the same circumstances. As yet, he’d not even asked her but once what she was doing so far from home. And truthfully, at the moment, she regretted having repaid his kindness with naught but rudeness when he’d inquired about her dress. “If you must know, I was to wed,” she confessed belatedly.

He was quiet a long moment, and Lianae waited for him to speak, prepared to tell him anything he wished to know—apart from revealing who she was. It was the least she might do to make up for her rudeness and repay him for his kindness.

“Somehow, I dinna imagine ye a dutiful wife.”

Lianae smiled, for she sensed ’twas not said as an insult. In fact, there seemed to be a note of admiration in his voice. “You flatter me, I believe.”

In truth, she had never envisioned herself wed to some fat, greasy lord. It was always Elspeth who was meant to spend a dowry. Lianae had been more than content to tend her father’s farm, and Óengus too seemed perfectly pleased to allow her to stay. Her mother had been the one who’d had other notions, for she’d longed for a passel of grandchildren. Because her sons hadn’t seem overly inclined to give them to her, she’d hoped both Elspeth and Lianae would wed and soon.

“Is that why you fled? Because ye dinna wish to wed?”

“Nay.” Lianae would have done so simply to please her mother. But up until a few days ago, she had never realized how cruel men could be. Fortunately, her mother had not lived to see Elspeth’s sightless eyes, her bruised neck and blue lips.

Keane made no more inquiries, and Lianae didn’t elaborate. Enough words had been spoken for now, and it eased her to know he would not pry. She rested her cheek against his back, stealing his warmth and allowing the steady beat of his heart to lull her back to sleep.

When she awoke after a while, she couldn’t be certain how long she’d slept or how long they’d been in the saddle, only that her tummy was growling all the louder and that her lashes were frosting together. But the wind was now gone, and she could hear the crunch of hooves marching endlessly through the snow. This was something that amused her: In the stories her grandmother often told—of times long past—she’d spoken of Vikings marauders stealing quietly through the snow. In Lianae’s experience, there was naught very quiet about snow. The sound was more a loud crunch, and just now, with fourteen horses and fifty-six legs, the din was relentless. But, alas, not louder than her wrathful stomach.

He patted her yet again. “Ye’re awake?”