Free Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) by Tanya Anne Crosby

disrespectfully.
    Then again, not all the looks she was forced to endure were born of appreciation. In fact, she sensed a malignant presence here that wasn’t entirely due to the fact that they’d nearly hanged her once this morn. She wondered bitterly how many of these men had watched from the ramparts, hoping to see her take her last breath. If any had thought it wrong that Rogan’s steward had intended to hang them without so much as a trial, they’d all clamped their mouths shut, unwilling to speak in their defense.
    Only one man intervened.
    Her eyes sought him now.
    He lifted his gaze for an instant and then returned it to his plate, dismissing her with an affectation of boredom, despite that she’d been brought here at his behest. No doubt it was his way of letting Lael know how little consequence she bore.
    One of the men at her back gave her an impatient little shove and Lael sucked in a breath and stumbled down the last step, with two guards falling at her sides and another three marching at her back.
    The hall fell silent as she approached the dais.
    She wished with all her might that her hands were no longer bound—so that she might slap the smirks off the faces of those she passed. How dare they parade her through this hall as though she were the Butcher’s trophy.
    Then again, am I not?
    Her gaze returned to the newly appointed master of this demesne: the Demon Butcher . It was said that although he was born of a Scot’s mother, he forsook his Scot’s blood, following his Sassenach father into service to the English crown, a mercenary for his one true liege—some claimed Henry of England, others claimed the devil himself, for ’twas said he’d sold his soul and wore the proof across his brow—a long, jagged scar received in battle on the day he burned his donjon to the ground. He should have died that day, for Lael was told they split his skull with an immense stone, hurling it from the ramparts. Sacked and bloodied, he rose up like a monster, his face broken, and set a torch to the motte, burning everyone within. Others claimed he took an arrow to his head, dealt by Donnal MacLaren himself.
    The simple fact that he now served David mac Maíl Chaluim was of little consequence for David himself was no more than Henry’s pawn. And yet, by the looks of him, his liege should have a care, lest the Butcher rise up like a viper to strike when he least expected.
    Studiously ignoring her approach, he sat in the lord’s chair as though he were born to it, his black mane long and flowing, his steel-gray eyes turned away, shielding all his secrets. But somehow, Lael felt his gaze even so.
    Aye, she decided, if there was one thing she knew with certainty, merely by the sight of this man, it was that he was accustomed to getting what he pleased. Well, by the Gods, no matter what he wanted from her, Lael vowed to refuse.

Chapter Six

     
    The dún Scoti lass took Jaime by surprise. He did not expect the dirty, green-eyed fury to clean up quite so… well .
    Dressed in a gown that was far too short for her willowy height, it caressed her lithe figure like a greedy lover, swirling about her ankles and revealing long graceful limbs that never seemed to falter. She paused for an instant at the foot of the stairs, but there was no fear in her gaze. Nay, she simply took a moment to measure the room as any seasoned warrior might do.
    Did she come to do battle?
    The thought amused him.
    Unbidden, his loins tightened, for he had a sudden vision of her tangled within his bedsheets. Frowning, he shoved the unwelcome thought aside, assuring himself that this girl was not meant for him.
    She’s a prisoner of war, not a bartered bride.
    Nevertheless, he allowed himself a moment of private admiration for the girl they called dún Scoti, for in truth, if he did not know better—know her brother’s fierce reputation—he might well believe her the dún Scoti queen herself, for she clearly bowed to no man.
    Proud. Dangerous.