Cassian: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 2) Page 11

  The heady scent of incense greeted him, a perfume that always made the years roll back.

  As a centurion, he’d worshipped Mithras—the Great Bull-slayer revered by soldiers. After being cursed, he’d thought his faith might fade with the years, especially in a land where no one had ever heard of Mithras.

  But in fact, The Bull-slayer had helped keep him strong in the hardest moments and continued to do so now.

  Lighting a fresh wand of incense, Cassian knelt before the altar, drew his dirk, and made a shallow cut upon his thumb. He smeared the blood on the stone and bowed his head, letting the smoke waft over him.

  “Great God Mithras,” he began. “Slayer of the Bull. Lord of the Ages. The wheel turns, and the Broom-star is again in the sky. Draw back the mists and grant three men of the lost legion peace … at last.”

  It was the same invocation that all three of the centurions used, each time they visited this temple. A plea for Mithras’s assistance and guidance.

  As he knelt there, Cassian’s thoughts turned from Aila to yesterday’s discovery.

  The Hammer of the Scots.

  Never had Cassian visited the mithraeum so hopeful that the curse would be broken. They’d taken a wrong turn in believing that the ‘hammer’ was Irvine. The truth was both exhilarating and unnerving.

  And when the Hammer of the Scots struck Dunnottar, they needed to be ready.

  Rising to his feet, Cassian turned to find a hooded figure standing a few yards behind him.

  “Good morning, Norris,” he greeted the guardian. “I’m relieved to see you up this early.”

  “Morning, Cassian,” the man replied. “I didn’t expect to see ye back here so soon.”

  “Neither did I.” Cassian flashed him a tight smile. “Is all well with you?”

  “Aye, thanks for asking.”

  “The English aren’t causing you and your family any trouble, I hope?”

  Within the recesses of the cowl, Cassian caught the man’s answering smile. “Not at present. We’re keeping our heads down, like we always do.” The man then gestured to the iron box that sat upon the altar, behind the burning incense. “Have ye brought another message for the others? Only Maximus has passed this way recently … there has been no sign of Draco for some while.”

  “They are both at Dunnottar now, thank you.” Cassian stepped toward the guardian, withdrawing a small scroll of parchment from within his leather vest. “And I do bring another message. I need an urgent favor. Can you take this to Dunnottar … and deliver it into the hands of Maximus or Draco … no one else?”

  Norris nodded. His features inside the shadowed hood tensed. “Aye, ye want me to leave now?”

  “Yes, as soon as you can.”

  “I will see it done.”

  “Thank you.”

  Norris reached out and took the scroll. Then the guardian turned and left the temple without another word.

  “That captain of yers is handsome, is he not?”

  Aila glanced up from her bannock to see that Fyfa was favoring her with a knowing smile. They sat at the long table in the kitchens, breaking their fast. Fyfa had revealed that ever since Edward’s occupation of Stirling, she and her husband were expected to take their meals with the servants.

  Indeed, Hume Comyn—a big, muscular man with short dark red hair and a solemn face—was on to his second bowl of porridge at the far end of the table.

  Fyfa should have taken her place next to him, but instead, she’d sat next to Aila.

  And now Aila knew why.

  Her jaw tensed. She wasn’t in the mood to discuss Cassian this morning. She was still reeling from the night before, caught between joy and misery. He’d kissed her like she was his world, and then he’d recoiled like she’d just turned into the bean-nighe. She might as well have transformed into the crone who brought an omen of death, for the horror she’d seen in his eyes.

  “He’s not my captain,” Aila replied, hoping that the frown accompanying her words would warn Fyfa off. Yet it didn’t.

  “He’s so tall and strong,” Fyfa continued, still smiling. “And that accent … where’s he from?”

  “Spain.”

  It was loud in the kitchens, the rumble of voices echoing off the surrounding stone. As such, the other servants were oblivious to the women’s conversation. All the same, the subject was making Aila feel nervous.

  She was new to this. She didn’t understand what she’d done to make him recoil so. He’d acted as if she’d enchanted him, and then he’d come to his senses.

  Cassian was a sore subject. She certainly didn’t need Fyfa rubbing his attractiveness in her face. She knew just how handsome he was—and now she knew how he tasted too.

  “He’s got the bonniest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Fyfa continued, seemingly oblivious to Aila’s discomfort. “Brown, green, and gold.”

  Aila tensed. She didn’t like the glint in Fyfa’s eye. She was a wedded woman, yet that didn’t stop her from commenting on Cassian. Aila wondered just how loyal she was to her husband.

  Reaching for a pot of heather honey, Aila started to spread it over her wedge of bannock. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed something to do.

  Feeling Fyfa’s gaze upon her, she eventually looked her way. The woman wasn’t smiling now; instead, she wore an assessing look, her blue eyes narrowed. “Ye are infatuated with him.”

  Aila swallowed hard. Infatuated. She hated that word. It made her feelings for Cassian sound trivial and childish. “No, I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m in love with him.”

  As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. The interest that flared in Fyfa’s eyes made her go cold.

  Mother Mary, what have I said?

  After a moment, Fyfa’s expression softened. “Don’t look so afraid Aila … I’m not about to go running through the castle screaming the news.” Her tone held a slight note of chagrin, as if Aila’s look of panic offended her. “Although I’d like to know what ye intend to do about this?”

  Aila put down the spoon she’d been using to spread honey over her bannock. Her stomach now churned. “Last night, after ye left … he kissed me,” she admitted shakily.

  A slow smile stretched across Fyfa’s face. “And?”

  “It was … passionate … but then he seemed to regret it. I fear I’ve chased him off.”

  Fyfa’s smile faded, her expression turning thoughtful. She picked up her cup of warm goat’s milk and took a sip. “He’s tormented,” she said after a pause. “I sensed it the moment he spoke to us.”

  Aila stiffened. Why hadn’t she noticed this? It was hardly surprising she hadn’t though, given her lack of experience in matters of the heart. Fortunately, Fyfa appeared a worldlier woman. “Tormented?”

  “Aye … but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want ye. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s had his heart broken in the past and is wary of repeating the mistake. He’ll run if ye let him … but a man like that needs to have his hand forced.”

  Aila’s pulse accelerated—the woman’s suggestion both thrilled and terrified her. But how can I make him to truly want me?

  Sensing her turmoil, Fyfa flashed Aila a wicked smile. “Lucky for ye we met. I can see ye need my help with this … and fear not, I have a plan.”

  XVII

  A SHOW OF LOYALTY

  CASSIAN TOOK A seat upon the dais, his gaze flicking to David De Keith.

  A morning out hunting usually put De Keith in a fine mood, but not so today. The laird’s face was pinched, his gaze narrowed.

  Seated beside him, the English king’s expression was also guarded.

  Cassian tensed. He grows suspicious.

  Leaning in, Cassian drew his laird’s attention. “De Keith,” he said softly, aware that the king was distracted. He was sharing a few words with John Comyn. “Remember what we agreed?” He deliberately spoke in Gaelic, for he didn’t want to risk being overheard by the king. However, he still had to keep his voice low—lest Comyn catch his words. ‘The Red’ ke
pt his counsel close. He’d said very little since their arrival, almost as if he was taking David De Keith’s measure.

  Like Edward, John Comyn was no fool.

  De Keith frowned. “Aye … and I don’t need reminding.”

  “The king watches you,” Cassian warned. “I suggest you stop stalling and bend the knee. Your hesitation is putting all of us at risk.”

  They were bold words, but Cassian needed to say them. The laird risked putting his wife and sister-by-marriage’s lives in danger if he delayed further.

  De Keith’s mouth pursed. “Stop nagging me, Gaius,” he growled. “I’ll do it when I’m ready.” The laird’s jaw clenched then, and Cassian once again wondered how the hunt had gone. He hadn’t joined them, for Edward, Comyn, and De Keith had ridden out with just a handful of the king’s men as escort. Cassian had taken advantage of the time alone to visit Stirling’s library.

  There was a riddle that had to be solved.

  He’d spent a few hours poring over a large volume that chronicled recent political events, but had turned up nothing of value. However, as soon as he was able, Cassian would return to the library and continue his search. Reference to the White Hawk and the Dragon had to be written down somewhere. Perhaps it referred to clan motifs? He needed to do further research.

  “Your Highness.” A female voice filtered across the table in French. Cassian glanced up from their conversation to see that Lady Elizabeth had now fixed Edward with a steady gaze. “I wish to ask you about my husband, Robert De Keith.”

  Edward of England smiled coolly back at her. “What do you wish to know, My Lady? I’m afraid I can’t reveal his location.”

  Elizabeth swallowed, her blue eyes shadowing. “Is he well?”

  “He is.”

  “Do you keep him in a dungeon?”

  “Yes … but his cell is a comfortable one. Robert doesn’t suffer.”

  Silence fell then. Cassian was aware that De Keith had gone still. Despite his warning the night before, Lady Elizabeth was still attempting to talk to Edward about her husband. The woman hadn’t heeded him at all.

  Cassian suspected that David didn’t wish to see his brother return to Dunnottar. It would suit him if Robert rotted in an English dungeon for the rest of his life—better yet if Edward decided to hang him, then David’s rule at Dunnottar would be assured.

  The brothers had never been close, and David had a ruthless streak that Cassian had long been wary of.

  We’ll never get him to bend the knee at this rate.

  “I have a message for my husband,” Elizabeth said finally, her voice strained now. “Would you see that he receives it?”

  Edward observed her for a long moment before he slowly nodded. He then gestured to the big man standing behind him—a formidable-looking warrior in a glittering hauberk and coif. “Give it to Hugh, and he will personally deliver the letter.”

  Elizabeth stared back at him. She was usually a woman with healthy coloring, but today her face was pale and strained. Cassian knew the couple were close. She’d worn charcoal and dark-grey kirtles ever since her husband’s capture, as if she already mourned Robert.

  “When will ye release—?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Elizabeth, cease this,” De Keith’s voice cut through the hush inside the hall. “Don’t pester the man.”

  Lady Elizabeth scowled. Unlike Gavina, she wasn’t intimidated by the laird. He wasn’t her husband and didn’t wield the same authority over her. “It’s a fair question, David.”

  “That it is,” Edward drawled. He picked up his goblet and took a sip, his gaze never straying from Elizabeth’s pale face. “But one I’m afraid I can’t answer.” He paused there, deliberately letting his words settle before he continued. The king then glanced over at De Keith. “It all depends on how cooperative your laird is … I’m still waiting to see a show of loyalty.”

  “Ye don’t want to make Longshanks wait too long,” John Comyn’s voice rumbled through the solar. “The man’s got a mean temper on him.”

  A few feet away, David De Keith snorted before raising his goblet to his lips and taking a large gulp. “Some of us kneel easier than others, Comyn.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled in the guests’ solar. Cassian drew in a deep breath and bit back the urge to warn the laird to lower his voice.

  After the nooning meal, they’d gathered in the large chamber that overlooked the King’s Knot and the deer park beyond. Unexpectedly, Comyn had joined them, although he’d taken the precaution of using the servants’ stairs up from the kitchen, rather than the main stairwell guarded by English soldiers. It was best that Edward didn’t know they were meeting in secret.

  Nonetheless, De Keith wasn’t being as prudent as the Guardian of Scotland. Standing before the hearth, the laird had virtually shouted his last comment.

  “A wise man picks his fights,” Comyn spoke up after a pause. “Don’t underestimate Edward of England.”

  “I’m not … but I’d rather not drop to my knees before him and beg to suck his rod.”

  Across the chamber, Lady Gavina paled at her husband’s crudity, while a few feet away, Elizabeth drew in a shocked gasp.

  “David … please,” Lady Gavina murmured, “there’s no need for that.”

  De Keith swiveled, spearing his wife with a withering glance. Gavina sat near the window, a spindle in one hand and a basket of bright red wool upon her lap.

  “Mind yer manners, De Keith,” Comyn growled, his bearded face creasing into a scowl. “There are ladies present.”

  The laird sneered, before he lifted his goblet once more, draining it.

  “We have to think of Robert,” Lady Elizabeth said, her tone wintry. “If we cooperate, Edward might release him.”

  “I’m far more concerned with finding out what Longshanks is planning,” De Keith shot back. “And then getting safely back to Dunnottar.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “But Robert’s yer brother!”

  The laird ignored his sister-by-marriage and crossed to the side-board. He went to pour himself a cup of wine. “This jug’s empty,” he snapped, turning to his wife. “Where’s that maid of yers?”

  “She’ll be next door, folding and pressing our washing,” Gavina replied stiffly.

  “Well, get her in here!”

  His wife cleared her throat. “Aila,” she called.

  A long moment passed, and then the door to the next room opened and a comely brown-haired lass entered.

  Despite his previous determination to wall himself off to Aila De Keith, Cassian went still at the sight of her.

  As always, she wore her long walnut-colored hair unbound, although today she’d pulled the front of it back so that it didn’t annoy her while she worked. Her cheeks bore a becoming blush, and her moss-green kirtle clung to her supple curves.

  Before he could stop himself, Cassian’s gaze roamed over her, remembering just how soft and warm her body had been pressed up against his. Her hair had smelled of lavender. And when his attention rested on her full mouth, his groin tightened at the memory of how she’d tasted: sweet, fresh, and all woman.

  Hades, I have to stop this.

  Cassian tore his attention from the lovely maid, his pulse racing now.

  Did he have no self-control at all? Hadn’t he vowed the night before that he would distance himself from Aila from now on? And yet all it had taken was for her to step into the room and his resolve splintered.

  He didn’t understand. For long years, he’d found it easy to keep himself walled off from women. None of the lovers he’d taken since Lilla had come close to capturing his heart; he’d made sure of that.

  Aila was shy, unsure of herself, and achingly young compared to his old, weathered soul, and yet when he’d kissed her, he hadn’t been the one in control.

  “Fill this jug with wine,” De Keith ordered, shattering Cassian’s reverie. He picked up the offending item and shoved it at her.

  “Aye, De Keith,” she m
urmured. Her gaze shifted around the solar, taking in the tense faces. She would realize that she’d just walked into a heated discussion. She looked at Cassian last, and treacherously, his gaze sought hers.

  And for an instant, they merely stared at each other.

  Cassian’s breathing quickened. This wasn’t what he wanted. Why couldn’t he stop from gawking at her?

  And then Aila dipped her chin, severing the connection. A moment later, she left the solar, clutching the jug to her side.

  Cassian watched her leave, and when he turned his attention back to his companions, he saw that Lady Gavina was observing him, her gaze curious.

  Swallowing hard, Cassian frowned. Had he been that obvious?

  “If ye are keen to learn of Edward’s plans … I can be of some assistance.” John Comyn spoke up once more. He lounged in a high-backed chair by the hearth. However, the man’s gaze was cool when it rested upon De Keith. “There are benefits to kneeling to the English king.”

  Cassian pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to smile. He liked Comyn; the man wasn’t easy to offend, and he was also sharp.

  His lack of wine momentarily forgotten, De Keith turned to him. “What have ye learned?”

  Comyn raised a ruddy eyebrow. “A few nights ago, I shared a few horns of mead with the king … and discovered some things.” The big man paused here, aware that all gazes in the chamber were now riveted upon him. He smiled, enjoying the moment. “The first is that we should be wary of his son … Edward, the newly appointed Prince of Wales.”

  De Keith frowned. “Go on.”

  “Prince Edward commands part of Longshanks’ army,” Comyn continued. “He has a force of around three hundred soldiers, and has taken control of the Solway coast. The prince is green and under his father’s control … but Longshanks boasted to me of his military prowess. He shares his father’s ambition to rule Scotland.”

  De Keith’s frown deepened into a scowl. “One Edward of England is bad enough,” he muttered. “We don’t need to deal with another.” He paused then, his features tightening. “And what else?”