Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,53
kneel before an English king.
David clenched his jaw. Robert would never suffer this.
It was true. His proud brother was festering in an English dungeon, but he hadn’t submitted to their rule. David would never live it down.
He’d initially agreed to play the Wallace’s game—but he wouldn’t any longer. Hot pride surged within him. I won’t bend the knee to an English king.
He wouldn’t let history remember him as the craven laird who’d knelt before the ‘Hammer of the Scots’, while the other northern chiefs refused.
Before he left Stirling, he’d ensure that history recorded him as a hero.
As the man who’d rid Scotland of Edward Longshanks.
The laird emerged from under the trellis and stopped before the kelpie statue. The fading light highlighted the beast’s profile, and patriotic pride surged through De Keith, causing his chest to swell.
John Comyn was currently a Guardian of the Realm, but he would be named its savior.
He would kill Edward of England and let his blood soak into Scottish soil.
He’d have little time left after that—for the castle was full of English soldiers—but De Keith had a plan. After Jean had whispered to him about a hidden way out of the keep, David had known what he must do. The existence of the exit made escape possible.
And once Edward was dead, he’d make straight for it.
He’d have to leave the others behind, but no doubt Comyn and Captain Gaius would ensure the women came to no harm. And even if Gavina and Elizabeth ended up suffering as a result, he didn’t care. He’d had enough of those meddlesome women, especially his Irvine wife—a woman he’d never wanted to wed.
He’d be sorry to abandon Jean though—she’d been a real delight—but he certainly wasn’t going to put himself at risk to save a servant.
The crunch of booted feet on gravel made David turn.
Edward had entered the garden and was walking toward him.
De Keith watched the King of England approach. The man reminded him a little of his elder brother, Robert. Long and lanky, he had a stalking gait—a warrior’s walk. As always, he wore a chainmail hauberk with a scarlet surcoat atop it. He wasn’t a young man, yet the years did not appear to have bent or weakened him.
The laird suppressed a frown at the sight of the chainmail; that would make Edward harder to kill. The king’s coif was lowered at least, leaving his neck exposed.
Determination coiled in David De Keith’s belly. I will strike him in the throat.
“Another ale.” Cassian called out, waving to the inn-keeper of The Golden Lion. The man wore a harried expression as he served two English knights—big men in hauberks, their broadswords hanging conspicuously at their sides.
The inn-keeper nodded, while the English soldiers glanced Cassian’s way. Their gazes narrowed.
Cassian stared belligerently back at them. The mood he was in, he welcomed an outlet for his simmering temper.
Go on, insult me … start a fight.
But, perhaps sensing his aggression, and maybe not in the mood to draw swords this evening, the two knights turned back to their tankards.
Cassian’s lip curled. Typical. How many times over the years had he entered a tavern, just looking for some peace and a cool tankard of local ale, only to have an idiot provoke him. But when he was in a confrontational mood himself, everyone else just wished for a quiet evening.
“Yer ale.” The inn-keeper carried across a fresh tankard and set it down before him. Cassian sat at a booth in the corner, a shadowy spot that afforded him a clear view of the whole common room. He always chose his seat in these places carefully. Even in his present mood, he still liked to keep an eye on his environs.
Cassian handed him a coin, and the man went on his way.
Taking a deep draft, Cassian wished he’d ordered something stronger. This ale wasn’t having the slightest effect on him. He needed his senses to dull, for the ache under his breastbone to ease, and for the bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders to relax for a short while at least.
But there was to be no respite.
Reclining against the back of the booth, Cassian ran a hand over his face.
He had no one to blame but himself for this mess.
He’d known that spending time with Aila De Keith was foolish—he’d known, and he’d ignored his instincts. It was hard to think straight when she was near, and on the two occasions she’d reached out and placed a hand upon his chest, he’d lost