Page 49 of Highland Storm

“Constance!” Kellen bellowed, and then her nephew bolted down the pier, shouting frantically after his wife.

They came to retrieve Keane after long hours down in the cells.

The smell of damp earth and images of Aveline’s rotting corpse had begun to fray his nerves. The sun was already making its descent, the castle’s crenellations casting shadow teeth upon the courtyard.

Lael swatted the dirt from her brother’s cloak, fretting as she tried to keep the pace. “Dinna lose your temper, Keane,” she demanded of him. “And dinna be rude. Remember, he is not the same man who once stole our Cat.”

“He is precisely the same man,” Keane argued, unwilling to wipe the king’s sins from existence merely because he’d managed to rally most of Scotia to his side.

Lael swiped something from his back, smacking him hard, and if he didn’t know better, he might think she was smacking him for his argument. “Ach! Ye sound like Aidan! David has proven to be a fair and wise mon, and indeed, were he no’, he’d never ha’e managed to win over so many hearts.”

“Clearly, he has won yours?” Keane lifted a brow, casting his sister a dubious glance without breaking his stride. If they meant to hang him, he refused to crawl.

Lael had the good sense to hesitate before speaking. “Aye, well… now I see him through my husband’s eyes. And, aye, he is the king of Scotia, by right or by might—and ye must trust him as I do.”

Ignoring the men who kept pace alongside them, and the grunts of displeasure when he stopped to take his sister by the hand, he folded Lael’s long fingers into his own. No longer were they so callused from practicing her blades. The feel of her hand was far different than it was the last time Keane held it. She had been the bigger one then, his eldest sister leaving a lanky youth to ride for Keppenach, defying their laird brother to do what she felt she must. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, loving her for her fierce, loyal spirit, but the years had softened her overmuch. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“I am nae longer a child, Lael. If I should lose my temper, I will accept the consequences, but dinna fash yourself’ o’er it. I’ve nae death wish, I assure ye.”

His words were meager consolation, if the worried look in her eyes was any indication. But she did not press Keane again. She nodded, accepting what he’d said.

The guards tugged him by the sleeve, once again leading him through the courtyard, but they did so respectfully for his sister’s sake. This was her demesne, after all, by right of her laird husband. Still Lael cast them all a warning glance and Keane couldn’t help but hide a smile. His sister was a force of nature. He envied Jaime not at all. If the truth be known, Lael was the very reason he’d never pursued a wife, for if they were all as stubborn, independent and willful as she was, he would die of stress before his time.

They entered the great hall, much changed from the days when Rogan MacLaren had served here as laird—much changed from merely a year ago. Now, the keep was larger, and far more modest. Additionally, they’d built a second keep to accommodate the influx of castle folk. Like his father before him, Jaime Steorling was a renowned warrior, with skills the nobles all coveted for their sons. These days, he accepted many young charges, and his sister had adapted well to her role of chatelaine, giving every man and woman she passed a welcoming smile. But today, Keane could tell that each smile was a bit of a trial. She was worried, he knew.

All along the walls, her hall was filled with tapestries—none of them quite to Keane’s taste. They were far too pious in nature, and he wondered if that were more for David rather than for Jaime or Lael. Scotia’s king spent a fair amount of time at Keppenach, which was probably one of the reasons Keane naturally stayed away.

They escorted him past the hall, past the dais where he knew Jaime entertained his tribunals. They marched him up the tower steps, to more private quarters—into Jaime’s solar, where Keane had been many a time before—but never escorted by guards. The guards all fell away before the door, and only Lael remained by his side as the solar door opened.

Inside, David mac Maíl Chaluim was seated in a chair near the brazier, half turned away from the table. With a long face, Jaime stood to greet him, smiling rather tightly. He came about the table, though he did not clap Keane on the back as usual. He took his wife by the arm and escorted her out of the room whilst David bade Keane to sit.

For a moment, Keane stood, unmoving, pride interfering with his common sense. The fire in the brazier trembled with the draft from the open door. It was a good long moment before he finally bothered to acknowledge Cameron, who was seated at the table, and then when he did so, it was with a nod, his jaw taut and teeth clenched.

Aside from the three men, no one else was present in the solar, but there were a number of half-empty tankards abandoned before vacant chairs, which led Keane to believe there had previously been people seated there, clearly discussing Keane’s fate. The simple fact that they’d not even allowed the maids to enter to clear away the dishes spoke volumes in itself. Behind him, Jaime closed the door on his wife and Keane watched his brother by law edge his way back around the table and seat himself in his chair.

“Sit down,” David said, more firmly now.

Despite the sober expressions, it was a casual setting. Keane hoped that meant something. And yet, something grave was amiss here, or he’d never have found himself trapped behind bars. Following Lael’s advice, Keane held his tongue, as much as it pained him.

“Today we have heard serious allegations against you, Keane dún Scoti.”

Keane’s teeth grated at hearing the bastardization of his name. He turned a baleful look toward Cameron, surmising that whatever allegations the king had heard, they must have come from him. But instead of looking away, Cameron held his gaze.

“Tell me how you plea,” asked the king.

Keane’s tone was full of contempt although he tried to mask it. “It would help to know what I am charged with.”

Something in the king’s expression softened. “And ye dinna ken?”

Keane felt himself growing impatient. “If I did, I am quite sure I would not have asked, Your Grace.”

The king hid a smirk. “I always liked you as a lad, Keane dún Scoti. You are more like your sister than your brother,” he said. “Fair enough.”

Keane refrained from any response at all, because he could not return the compliment. He didn’t suffer liars well—nor did he appreciate the king’s continued use of the dún Scoti name.

David waved a hand dismissively. “Let us dispense with the trivialities,” he said.

Keane blinked, uncowed.