Page 45 of Highland Storm

Blinking with confusion, she peered up at the dark smooth rock upon the altar. There were holes on the sides where handles must have once been, but clearly, this wasn’t an object meant to tote about. On one side, it bore a plaque, and sensing it was an important discovery, the babe was forgotten for an instant as Constance reached out to touch the stone, brushing her fingers over the worn, etched letters. Her brother Cameron had taught her to read and so she knew precisely what it said. She spoke the words aloud:

Unless the fates be faulty grown

And prophet’s voice be vain

Where’er is found this sacred stone

The blood of Alba reigns.

The old woman screeched like a banshee, opening her eyes, and bounding up from the floor. Constance screamed.

With a terrible cacophonous shout, Una raised her staff high and brought it crashing down on the chamber floor. There was a boom and a crack and the room erupted with blinding, white light.

Chapter

Sixteen

Dirty ocher light filled the chamber, fueled by fat tallow candles and a short, husky brazier smoldering beside the king’s chair.

But no sooner were the words out of Lianae’s mouth when she regretted them at once. If possible, they made her feel dirtier yet than the hateful gown she still wore—even dirtier than the warm, stale smoke that thickened about her nostrils.

May God forgive her; she would never return to the Earl.

The mood in the room grew more somber yet. All five men present stared at her across the table, none with any measure of charity, despite the atrocity she’d only just confessed.

With narrowed eyes, King David sat in his chair, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm, considering her allegation. “And you have proof?” His expression was sober, his long, lean face stern and his complexion nearly as rufous as his beard.

Until now, they had fed her, and mostly treated her well, but Lianae was wise enough to know that despite these small courtesies, her fate would be decided here today with a flick of that long finger the king was using to abuse his chair. He could very easily send her back to the Earl—and why should he care what happened to her from there? Why should he give a damn that her sister had died at William fitz Duncan’s hands? His ally, in truth. And yet, there was something in the depths of the king’s gaze that gave Lianae hope—some inkling of compassion.

“Lianae… have you proof?” the king persisted.

It just so happened she did. The bruises William gave her had been so dark and injurious that they had left her with twin bands of his rage. That he did not finish what he’d started had been a mere matter of minutes and her brother’s infuriating sense of diplomacy—for this alone she could thank him for, no more.

And yet, she was not implicating the Earl here today.

If she were defiled, fitz Duncan would never take her back. His pride was too great to allow it, whether or not she was a princess of Moray.

She had been horribly afraid the king would consider it the right of a betrothed to taste what would be his. Theirs was a precarious alliance betwixt two men who would both be king, and she feared David would need a better reason to keep her from William fitz Duncan’s bed, and what better way to do so than to claim she was defiled by another man?

And it should have been true.

She had shared Keane’s bed every night since finding him at Lilidbrugh. It should have been easy enough for anyone to believe—that a man like Keane—so big, so strong—could take it upon himself to plant his seed inside her.

But Lianae had been so desperate to escape her own fate that she had never stopped to suppose what it would mean for Keane. Guiltily, she met Cameron’s gaze. He would know her claims weren’t entirely true, though unless she meant to prove herself a liar, her words could not be undone. For better or worse, she must press her case.

Wanting to weep now, Lianae slowly pushed her chair away from the table and stood. Her tears were real. She didn’t have to pretend. Her grief was genuine and the taste on her lips was bitter—a sour blend of guilt for the honor of a man she had just impugned as much as for the memory of what she had endured at the Earl’s hands. Fear left a fouler taste in her mouth and an even uglier taint upon her heart.

Reminding herself that a woman must do what she could to survive, she cast a glance at the other occupants of the room, her gaze returning to the king’s. She bent to pull up the hem of her gown, showing the king the bruises that encircled her ankles, angry dark rings that were still visible even days later.

“Keane did this?” the laird of Keppenach asked. His gaze snapped to meet Luc’s and then to Cameron MacKinnon. His tone was clearly disbelieving, leaving Lianae to wonder how well Keane knew this man. Aside from the king and Luc and Cameron, she had little inkling who any of these people were. But she felt a sudden rush of fear, for the look in Jaime Steorling’s eyes was none too pleased, and his ire seemed directed at Lianae. Still, she nodded, quite certain that it was her only choice.

If she did not mistake the sound, the King growled. Startled, Lianae took a step backward and an instant of true fear squeezed at her heart.

If the king would not believe she was defiled, he might send her back to Fitz Duncan. “I-I am… late,” she hurried to say.

Another lie.

They were piling up now faster than Lianae could remember them. And still she pressed her case. For emphasis, she moved a hand to her belly, watching the king’s eyes as they fell upon her once more, also moving to her belly. Neither did the laird of Keppenach miss her gesture and he shared a look with his king, arching his devil’s brow.