Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,27

return—for none of them could make such a promise.

Aila dropped her gaze to her own supper. Elizabeth’s pain was palpable, but that was what happened when you gave someone your heart. However, the risk was worth it in her opinion. Elizabeth and Robert’s marriage stood out in stark contrast to Gavina and David’s.

When I wed, it will be for love, Aila vowed, cutting herself a piece of cheese.

Her stomach fluttered at her resolution. The conversation with Cassian earlier had emboldened her. He was warming to her; she could sense it.

The four women ate in silence, letting the roar of the storm outdoors dominate, before Jean passed around a skin of ale. Meanwhile, the brazier had started to warm the interior of the tent, despite the drafts caused by the buffeting wind. The odor of damp wool and peat smoke caught in Aila’s throat and made her cough.

Eventually, Lady Gavina gave a delicate yawn and shifted back from the brazier. She settled down upon the fur Jean had rolled out for her.

“Shall I help ye undress, My Lady?” Aila asked, brushing crumbs off her skirts and rising to her feet.

Gavina shook her head. “I won’t bother tonight,” she replied. “Not in this weather.”

“Neither will I,” Lady Elizabeth added. “But can ye comb out my hair, Jean? It feels like a rat’s nest tonight.”

Aila and Jean went through their usual nightly routine of brushing out their mistresses’ long hair. Once that was done, they retired to their own furs on the opposite side of the brazier, near the flap that led outdoors. A chill draft clawed at Aila there, and she was grateful to wrap herself in her still-damp cloak to ward it off.

Lying side-by-side, the two maids huddled under their cloaks.

“Isn’t this exciting,” Jean murmured, her voice muffled by the screaming wind. “I’ve never been away from De Keith lands before.”

“Neither have I,” Aila admitted, glancing up at where water was dripping down from the smoke hole. She edged away from it. “I hope the weather improves though … I was looking forward to the journey, but not in driving rain.”

“It’s Stirling I can’t wait to see,” Jean whispered back. “I can’t believe the English king is actually there … I wonder if he sports a devil’s tail as folk say.”

Aila snorted at the ridiculous notion. However, Jean was right about one thing: Edward Longshanks didn’t belong in Scotland. She hated the thought of him taking Stirling Castle as his own. Lady Gavina had told her the laird would be expected to swear fealty to Edward—something else that made her tense.

“My sister’s been to Stirling,” Aila admitted, keen to turn the conversation away from the loathsome Edward. “She says it’s a jewel … with the River Forth sparkling in the sun on bright days and the castle rising like a sentinel above it … the brooch that holds Scotland together.” Pride tightened in Aila’s breast as she said the words.

“And the castle is said to be even bigger than Dunnottar,” Jean replied. “I can’t wait to explore it.”

Aila smiled. She too was looking forward to that. She wondered how long they would remain in Stirling, and whether Lady Elizabeth would be able to soften Edward into releasing her husband. Would Edward reveal his plans now that he’d taken Stirling?

The reminder of the English occupation years earlier made Aila’s pride subside, a nervous flutter replacing it.

She rolled away from Jean, terminating the conversation. What a couple of twittering fools they were, treating this journey like a longed-for jaunt. It was a foolish approach to take.

Especially with so much at stake.

XII

JOURNEY’S END

“YOU’RE TOO TENSE, Aila.”

Dusty side-stepped and tossed her head, chafing against the third rein that kept her leashed to Cassian’s courser. Aila tightened her reins, yet the mare just fought harder. This horse really was too much for her. If anything, the palfrey had become even more hot-headed during the journey south.

She shot Cassian a pained look. In contrast to her rigid posture, he appeared to have been born in the saddle. The stallion he rode, a powerful animal that intimidated Aila somewhat, seemed docile under his firm hand.

“The mare senses your fear,” he continued. “Loosen your hold on the reins. The mare isn’t going to bolt with me leashing her.”

“I’m not afraid,” Aila lied, although she relaxed her death-grip on the reins—a relief, for her fingers had stiffened into claws.

Dusty immediately stopped fighting the bit.

“You don’t control a horse when you climb upon its back,” Cassian added, catching her eye. “You