Page 29 of Highland Storm

“Used to?” Keane peered over his shoulder, glimpsing the top of her pale red curls.

“Aye.”

“Is he no longer with us?”

“Aye.”

“And your minny?”

“Dead.”

“Ach now, Lianae, do ye speak more than one word at a time?”

She laughed quickly, and the sound was like music to Keane’s ears.

“Ha’e ye anyone left?”

Her lean arms encircled his chest—a gesture that felt not unlike a hug, and the sensation gave Keane a strange lump in his throat. But he sensed her answer before she spoke again, and it filled him with sadness.

What must it be like to be truly alone?

He’d often thought of himself as alone, but the truth of the matter was that Keane had kinfolk who loved him and who would welcome him home no matter the circumstances.

“No,” she said after a long moment.

“No brothers, no sisters?”

“I had three brothers, one sister.”

She didn’t offer up any more information and it took Keane a long moment to vanquish the instinct not to pry.

“I’ve been told my brothers and my sire all fell at Stracathro in Forfarshire, and my mother—well, she died three years past.”

“And your sister?”

“Murdered.”

Keane didn’t anticipate that answer, and sensing they were venturing into painful territory, he refrained from making jokes about her return to one-word answers. And yet she seemed in the mood to talk, and so he asked the one question he wished to know. “Tell me, lass… who were you running from?”

Her entire body shuddered, and her fingers unlocked about his chest, her hands falling away, though she didn’t answer and Keane frowned.

“If ye dinna tell me, ye’ll leave me with no choice but to hand you over to the king.”

Her tone was flippant now. “And is that what you do with all the strange women you encounter?”

“Of course not.”

“Why then would ye turn me over to your king.”

There was naught simple about the girl, Keane decided. And, in fact, she might be the most complicated woman he’d ever met—his sisters included. As for the barb—although it wasn’t meant to be one, he took offense at her reference to his king. David mac Maíl Choluim was not his king.

And then there was this: There were some who as yet did not welcome David’s rule—particularly in Moray—but more and more every day the choice was no longer their own. David mac Maíl Choluim had won himself Northhampton and Huntingdon, as well as most of the lowlands. Now, after the victory at Stracathro in Forfarshire, he ruled Moray as well as much of the Highlands. After all these years, he could rightly call himself the High King of the Scots and Chief of Chiefs. Whether Lianae had intended to or not, she had revealed much to him with her simple question, and now more than before he was glad he’d chosen Dunloppe as their immediate destination. And still he pressed her. “My king?”

He heard the resentment in her tone. “Well, he is, is he not?”

“David mac Maíl Choluim is the rightful king of Scotia,” he told her. It was true, whether they liked it or not. “He is your king as well.” He waited to see if she would take offense over that.

But she said naught, nor did she return to her current resting position and Keane felt the separation acutely. It was a strange feeling, considering that he had known the lass less than a day. But now his curiosity was piqued: Who was she that she would not accept David mac Maíl Choluim as her rightful king?