Page 42 of Highland Storm

He had only seconds left to decide.

If he went in, he might plead their case to the king, though if he did… Keane would unknowingly walk into treachery. And if Keane were guilty? Where did that leave Cameron?

Either way, they were at the king’s mercy.

With a creak and a groan, the chains began to tighten…

South had never been the dún Scoti’s favored direction to ride.

Trudging through thick drifts of snow, Keane’s mood remained sour. His men spoke not a word, but every last one had accompanied him, save for Murdoch. For all he knew, Murdoch might well be with Cameron.

Sullen bastard.

Despite Cameron’s obvious dissent, this was the last thing Keane would ever have expected from him. A smack to the jaw, perhaps, or a brawl in the snow, but to steal Lianae away? He realized the king’s men had been suspicious of her, and he could well comprehend their actions. If he’d been in a different position himself, Keane might have done precisely the same thing. But the one thing that spurred his ire more than aught else, and made his temper blacker than he could e’er recall, was the simple fact that Cameron had forsaken him. Some part of him understood why, but it galled him just the same.

Only briefly had he contemplated riding north. He didn’t believe Lianae would return that way. Deep in his gut, he sensed she was running—not searching for her missing brothers, despite what she’d claimed. There was no mistaking the bruises on her face and on her legs. She was running, or she would never have left so unprepared. And were she inclined to go back, she would have done so whilst they’d remained at Lilidbrugh, where she clearly knew the way home.

If there was a single bright note to the occasion, it was this: His men followed him without question, despite that they too must sense what was to come.

It wasn’t long before they reached their destination.

The gates of Keppenach opened at once. Keane hesitated but a moment before spurring his mount through the gates. The very instant they entered the courtyard, the gates were closed at once. And despite that his brother by law was laird of this keep, the king’s men at arms spilled into the courtyard, marching toward Keane and his company of men. He spied his sister’s countenance in a tower window, and he knew the situation was dire. Even from this distance, he could see the worry in her face.

They were surrounded.

“Stand down,” he commanded his men, for despite the livery they wore, not all were loyal to David. He knew that as well as anyone. Raising his hands in the air, Keane slid out of his saddle and his men all followed suit.

The laird of Keppenach appeared on the doorstep of the keep, arms crossed his expression foreboding. He was followed by David mac Mhaoil Chaluim.

“Keane dún Scoti!” the marshal announced, the very instant Keane’s feet touched the ground. “By command of David mac Maíl Choluim, Prince of the Cumbrians, Earl of Northhampton and Huntingdon, the Righ Art, the High King of the Scots and Chief of Chiefs, heir of Kenneth MacAilpín, we must place you under arrest. Lay down your arms!”

Keane’s eyes met Jaime’s, and Jaime gave him a nod, as he plucked his sword from his scabbard, and tossed it down on the ground. He pulled the dirk from his boot as well and cast it down. And then the knife at his belt followed. He flung it before him. It clattered noisily across the stone courtyard.

“I am disarmed,” he announced, and all at once, the king’s men rushed forward. Binding his arms behind his back, they dragged Keane out of the courtyard.

Chapter

Fifteen

Lael blew into the gaols like a wrathful wind, her long, pale blue skirts sweeping the length of the crude dirt floor. “Keane! What ha’e ye done?”

Despite that he had not seen her now in more than a year, her face was unchanged. At thirty-two, after having borne four children—one nine, one eight and two wee ones under the age of four—Lael still looked like a lassie herself. The last time he saw her she was still pregnant with bairn number four, and he had yet to meet the youngest of her brood.

He leaned back against the prison wall. “I thought for sure my return to Keppenach would see me cozied in your new keep, with a brazier burning at my bedside. Instead, you toss me into your brig.” He smiled wryly, though his sister didn’t appear the least amused.

Her hands seized the prison bars. “Would that you had ne’er laid eyes upon this scabrous piece of my home,” she lamented. “Ach, Keane! I ha’e no love for these gaols.”

Keane shrugged, uncertain what to say.

“At least ye are no’ in chains,” his sister said, pointing at the wall beside him, where a pair of ancient, rusted irons with sharp-edged cuffs were bolted into the stone wall. By the looks of them, they would rot a man’s arm off. “Broc was held here once.”

There were few who’d not heard that tale. Troubadours sang of it still. Ten years past, his sister Lael had ridden out from Dubhtolargg, beside Broc Ceannfhionn, intending to take Keppenach. Instead, they’d found their heads in a noose. At the very last moment, the Demon Butcher rode through Keppenach’s gates, like a devil in black. Jaime cut her down from the gibbet, then promptly wed her. Unfortunately, Cameron’s cousin hadn’t had quite the same reception, despite his good fortune in the end. “Here, in this cell?”

Lael nodded. “Aye,” she said, and then she turned to face him with tears glistening in her stark green eyes. “Tell me what happened, Keane.”

“Haven’t they already said?”

Despite her glittering eyes, Lael tilted him an impatient look—that same impertinence he knew and loved so well. “Ach, now, would I be down here askin’ if I knew? Nay, Keane. They’ve ensconced themselves in Jamie’s solar to discuss the matter—away from prying ears.”