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

sat in a lord’s chair. Moreover, it was the first time he’d ever been awarded a demesne as his payment. However, considering that she was his first guest ever—male or female—his was a fair enough response to such an insolent question.
    In answer, she tilted her head a bit like a benevolent queen. “Oh, how gracious ye be.” She smiled prettily, and unbidden, Jaime’s heart leapt at the gesture. It was hardly a genuine smile, but it was beauteous nonetheless. Damn , he had seen her knives—all of them—deadly weapons meant to cut out a man’s heart, but none so easily as that smile.
    Lael braced herself for the Butcher’s temper.
    She had no notion what had come over her. Her brother had not raised a fool, but apparently she’d forsaken all her lessons here today. At the moment she was surrounded by men who were loyal only to the Butcher—or worse, to Rogan MacLaren, and yet she could not seem to bide her tongue.
    The youth at her side swallowed. Lael heard him over the rising hush. Thereafter, not a sound breached the lowering silence—no cups set down upon the table, no poniards striking trenchers, not even a subtle clearing of throats.
    Use your wits, Lael, she reminded herself. Use your wits.
    There was a time for brawn and a time for reason, and she understood instinctively that force would gain her naught this day—neither would a saucy tongue. By far, she would gain more simply by using her wiles, though now the silence endured so long she felt a frisson of fear.
    And yet… she found herself mesmerized by his face. The scar that men told tales about was little more than a thin, white jagged line that traveled from the top of his nose over his left brow, splitting the dark brow in half above his steel gray eyes.
    “Your gratitude humbles me,” the Butcher said acerbically. “One would think you should feel a bit of appreciation after standing for hours with a noose about your neck?”
    The tenor of his voice was gentle, but Lael knew better. The man was a mercenary for his king. The depth of silence in the hall was a testimony to the fear he instilled in men.
    And yet what man did not respond well to flattery?
    “I beg forgiveness,” she said sweetly, tempering her spleen and gritting her teeth behind a smile—a smile mimicking those she’d witnessed on other woman, for congeniality did not come so easily to Lael. However, neither did duplicity. Her honeyed tone gave her heartburn. “You do have my gratitude,” she said and batted her long, black lashes. “But surely ye canna be afraid of a wee lass?” she challenged. “I’ve heard so many tales recounted of your prowess, even so far as Dubhtolargg. In fact, I hear tell ye can tear a man in twain with only bare hands?”
    He stared at her, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his full lips. “And when I fart, I raise a fierce north wind,” he added, presumably mocking her.
    Lael blinked in surprise, somehow managing not to laugh. “Well, of course,” she said, recovering swiftly. “What else should men have to talk about whilst in their cups but the blowing of wind?”
    The Butcher returned a guffaw, surprising her with the quick show of humor. “Aye, well… I give you that.” His steel gray eyes gleamed with lingering mirth “It does seem we have an innate preoccupation with arses—men’s and women’s both.”
    Lael resisted the urge to peer at her own, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her silly dress. His good humor seemed genuine, still she frowned; she didn’t want to like him.
    Unfortunately, it was too late: His face transformed before her eyes, from a demon’s to a man’s… one graced with fairer looks than most. He had a tiny black mole set beneath the corner of his right eye that seemed to lift whenever he smiled—something she hardly appreciated noting. And that demon’s scar nearly vanished before her eyes. It was far less noticeable now.
    Still, if she could gain her freedom, she would have batted her