Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (42 page)

If she was surprised by his command of the Scots’ tongue she didn’t show it. Her gaze shifted to Broc Ceannfhionn.

“Peace!” she scoffed. “By what means?” she challenged him, returning her fiery gaze to his. “The return of prisoners to your gaols? Nay,
my laird husband.”
Her words were full of scorn. She thrust her sword high into the air—the sword Broc had revealed to him—a treasure of Scotland that few men had ever seen.

“
I
hold the sword of the
Righ Art
,” she proclaimed. “I will trade you for Broc Ceannfhionn!”

Gleaming under the last rays of sunlight, she held the sword of kings aloft, the consecrated blade of Kenneth MacAilpín. But Jaime didn’t believe in prophecies. Neither did he believe a stone seated under the king’s arse or a shiny bit of metal could quell a rebellious nation. Only the hearts of men could do such a thing.

Jaime peered at Broc and gave him a nod. The blond giant hesitated but an instant, as though he meant to be certain, and then he spurred his mount forward, cantering past Jaime, into the bosom of his folk.

“You may keep the sword,” Jaime called to his wife, his steely gaze returning to Lael. “Only return to me my wife!”

A murmur exploded into the December air.

As though comprehending all at once that this was no longer a quarrel between nations, but one betwixt husband and wife, Lael’s entire entourage fell away, like a cloak ripped from the shoulders of a queen.

Lael peered about in surprise, clearly confused.

Jaime’s words hung like frost in the air.

Even as she began to understand, Lael could scarce begin to hope. Even her brother shimmied backward on his horse, leaving her alone at the fore.

Her heart hammered in her ears as she turned to watch Broc Ceannfhionn cross their lines, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her husband made no attempt to stop him. The blond giant simply rode into their midst, leaving her husband more vulnerable than he could ever possibly be.

With nearly five hundred men they held the high ground, with Jaime down below, looking small and defenseless against their multitudes. His sword remained sheathed. He sat his black steed, with two men, one each at his flanks. Neither had swords draw, and the gates behind them were open wide. She could spy the folks of Keppenach, all watching from the ramparts. But her husband’s eyes were trained only upon her…
her and no one else
… So were everyone else’s, she realized suddenly as she turned to meet the gazes of her kinfolk.

Her brother nodded only once, and her heart turned a flip.

Ach, so easily he would set Broc free?

Broc held her gaze as he moved into their ranks, his blue eyes speaking volumes, and once he neared enough for Lael to hear, he said, “Give the man his bloody sword. I dinna claim it.”

“Nay!” Lael argued, and hoisted the sword stubbornly into the air. “You
must
choose!” she shouted at the laird of Keppenach—the man who’d come to wrest this land per force. Now that he must realize what she held, he had a duty to return the sword to his odious king. But she could not be with a man whose duty and loyalty were not to his kin. In the end, if a man was not fighting for those he loved… who the hell was he fighting for? “The sword of kings
or
me?” Lael persisted, lifting her chin, hardening her heart against his choice.

Her husband’s face alone broke her heart—proud and handsome. He made no move to get his weapon, nor did he wrest himself free of her gaze. And it was only then she recognized what he wore.

He’d donned the earthy plaid of his mother’s clan, pinned like a cloak so it fell behind him. Her breath caught. Her heart wrenched. Her eyes glistened.

He stood in his saddle. “My love is my wife and my wife is my love,” he declared for all to hear. And then he commanded her, “Return the sword to Broc Ceannfhionn. I do not claim it for my king!”

Stunned, Lael brought down the sword—a jewel of Scotia disempowered by words alone. Her gaze traveled the length of the
claidheamh-mor
, the two-handed great sword once held by Scotia’s kings. She tossed it down upon the snow-laden ground and slid down from the gray mare.

Her husband did the same. Without words, he leapt down from his saddle and mounted the rise of the hill, his cloak billowing magnificently behind him.

They fell together into an embrace, tears brimming in Lael’s eyes. She raised her teary gaze to her husband and said for all to hear, “
Tha mo ghion ort!”

I love you with all my heart!

“Say you’ll stay,” he begged.

“All my life,” she promised, and then she promptly turned her face and spewed her guts at his feet…

Castle Dunloppe

Summer, 1127

S
he was pregnant—
again
.

Jaime realized it before Lael.

Bouncing their one-year-old daughter in one arm, his wife stood not more than ten feet away, listening to Catrìona teaching his sister Kenna how to properly weave thatch for a roof, when she suddenly stopped to spew her guts at her sister Catrìona’s feet.

“Lael!” Catrìona exclaimed, but then she tilted her sister a look of concern. “Are ye ill?”

Beside him, Aidan slid Jaime a knowing glance, while his three-year-old daughter and Catrìona’s son of nearly the same age squealed with delight over the unexpected vocal eruption. The two young cousins stamped their feet with glee as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

Lìli, too, seemed to comprehend what it meant. Aidan’s wife peered back over her shoulder, casting Jaime a meaningful glance.

“Ach!” Aidan complained. “Ye’ll soon have wee Sassenach brats crawling all over my vale.”

Jaime awarded his brother-by-law a wily grin. Although there was truly an edge to his words, because he still saw Jaime in part as a Sassenach outlander, Jaime realized he meant no true offense. He patted his wife’s brother on the shoulder, as though to console him. “Never fear, my friend. They’ll all be lassies, if I have any say.”

Broc elbowed him in the ribs. “Aye? And when’s was the last time ye had any say, Sassenach?”

Those within earshot all barked with laughter, and Jaime conceded with a mirthful shake of his head as he stood back to admire a hard day’s work, along with the chieftains of seven noble clans—the dún Scoti, who bore no other name, the MacLean, Montgomerie, Brodie, the MacKinnon, and the last of the McNaught and MacEanraig clans.

For more than three months now, the clans had worked tirelessly together to rebuild Dunloppe better than it was before. While not all clans were presently sworn to David mac Maíl Chaluim, each was pledged to honor blood before land and land before king, for theirs was now a bond of blood.

Gavin mac Brodie had wed Catrìona, The MacLean’s daughter to Leith mac Brodie, Broc to a cousin of Montgomerie’s and Montgomerie’s wife, known to some affectionately as Mad Meghan, was once a Brodie. And now, judging by the amorous looks Cameron MacKinnon was casting Lael’s younger sister, Cailin, Cameron would soon see himself on his knees… if somehow he could manage to convince a dubious Aidan that he was worthy of the honor.

Along the north wall, the lad continued to work beside Keane, vying for an ally while Lìli’s young son handed them stones, his little body straining over the effort. The rest of the men were done for the day, communing with their wives, whilst the children caroused in fields of fragrant heather.

For miles across the heathland the ling heather painted the landscape with a glorious purple hue, all but for a small patch of white near the donjon. As legend would have it, the white heather was extraordinarily rare and some claimed the snow-white blossoms grew only where blood had not tainted the land for some years. Others contended the sprigs only grew where faeries lay at rest. Whichever the case, Broc was certain it was an omen for good, and Jaime took it as a sign that the land was renewed.

Life was good, peace hard won.

Dunloppe now belonged to Broc Ceannfhionn—signed, sealed, and delivered by a rider earlier this very day by the grace of David mac Maíl Chaluim.

For Jaime, there was a certain catharsis to the event, for there before him, not a stone’s throw away, sat the sister he’d once believed dead.

That day, when he’d returned with his wife—a man happily wed—he’d taken the lass aside to reveal what he knew. She’d sobbed, despite that she’d claimed she somehow knew, though she dared not hope. Her life until Jaime found her had been difficult, and she still bore the scars of her abuse. However, with his and Lael’s love, every day Kenna was blossoming into the woman she was meant to be.

Kenna met his gaze for an instant and her blue eyes twinkled with joy. He wondered if she too felt renewed by the passing of Dunloppe’s torch.

Here, sixteen years past, he’d left her for dead. Now she was nineteen with a beauty as rare as the white heather. Her wavy copper tresses shone beneath the late afternoon sun and her skin kissed by the sun. She, like Dunloppe, grew more magnificent every passing day.

As for Dunloppe itself… Jaime turned to admire it.

Rising like a phoenix from the dust of the land, Dunloppe’s donjon tower was constructed of wood, but the curtain wall, once completed, would be made entirely of mortared stone.

But this was no longer his legacy. While he’d kept his father’s name, he now styled himself as laird of Keppenach, heir of the late, but not so great Duncan McNaught. He was henceforth known as James Steorling McNaught, while his sister Kenna forsook the MacLaren name entirely and hailed herself only as a McNaught. And his lovely, stubborn wife rebuked
all
names aside from the one given her at birth: Lael—
simply Lael
.

Recalcitrant as ever, his wife nevertheless believed every man should hail to his own. She was a she-wolf, in truth, though Jaime would have it no other way.

With a lingering smile, he watched Aidan’s little daughter Ria follow behind her indomitable aunt.

Once again, from where she sat working her thatch, his sister peered up at him and smiled sweetly, seeking his approval, and Jaime felt a keen, inexorable sense of belonging. He vowed in that instant to see Kenna happily wed, with a family of her own. And when his wife met his gaze thereafter, he nearly sank to his knees, for in his spirited
dún Scoti
bride he’d found his religion.

Together they would build a legacy for their heirs.

“Dunloppe is all I hoped for and more,” Broc said, a note of awe in his voice. Standing bareback, with shoulders burnt from the sun, both men stood marveling at the work they’d accomplished together. “I dinna ken how to thank ye, Jaime.”

Jaime smiled. He cast a loving glance at his beautiful wife, imagining her belly swelling with their child and the kisses he would soon bestow. The daughter she held in her arms was her very image, with black hair and green eyes that sparkled like jewels. And now she would give him another precious gem:
boy or girl?
he mused. “You already have,” he told his good friend. “You brought me my wife.”

Dear Reader,

Now that you’ve read Highland Steel, you probably are asking yourself, what happened to Cailin and Cameron? You might be happy (or sad) to know that I thought this aspect of the story was too involved to simply give them a cursory love affair. Those of my readers who have been with me since the Highland Brides know Cameron has some making up to do before he’s redeemed. Aidan would never allow his beloved sisters to wed anyone who wasn’t worthy. Stay tuned for
The Redemption of Cameron MacKinnon,
a brand new serial spinoff to The Guardians of the Stone.

In the meantime, if you don’t remember Cameron from the Highland Brides, now’s the time to begin reading the book that started it all:
The MacKinnon’s Bride
, followed by
Lyon’s Gift
,
On Bended Knee
,
Lion Heart
and finally
Highland Song.