Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,54
his wits.
He imagined Maximus and Draco sitting opposite him then. The former would be favoring him with an exasperated look, while the latter would likely be wearing his best ‘I told you so’ smirk.
His own arrogance had gotten him into this. He’d thought he could go through life without connection, without letting himself go with a woman.
But Aila had taught him that, underneath his defenses, he was achingly lonely—and his hubris had been his undoing.
Cassian took another gulp of ale, wincing at the memory of Lady Gavina’s cutting words.
Of course, the laird’s wife didn’t understand. And he wasn’t about to explain the situation to her.
Hades take them all. This was why Maximus had chosen to live a solitary life for so many years.
People could be incredibly wearing.
Once more, he lifted the tankard to his lips and took a deep pull. The Golden Lion, one of his favorite establishments in Stirling, had an odd atmosphere this eve. Apart from one or two stalwart locals, English soldiers filled the tables and booths. There was a watchful, tense atmosphere within the common room.
Cassian had come here looking for some escape, but The Golden Lion wouldn’t provide it.
If anything, the ale just darkened his mood further.
All he could think about now was the hurt in Aila’s smoke-grey eyes. The look on her face still tormented him. She’d actually flinched. He hadn’t wanted to be hurtful, or to wound her, but he’d been desperate.
Whenever he trod gently, he just got himself deeper into trouble.
In order to drive the reality of the situation home, he’d had to be brutal—but he still regretted hurting her.
“I take it you’re not about to bandy words again, De Keith?”
Edward’s greeting made anger coil in David’s belly. The English king’s arrogance had goaded him from the moment he’d walked into the Great Hall three days earlier. Since then, the two of them had played a game—one that Longshanks was slowly winning.
But David De Keith was about to turn the tables on him.
“No, Your Highness,” he replied in French, meeting the king’s eye. “That’s why I wanted to see you alone. It isn’t easy for a proud Scot to humble himself before an Englishman. I’d rather not have an audience when I do this.”
Edward’s gaze glinted.
He thinks he’s beaten me.
De Keith’s jaw clenched at the victory he saw in the king’s piercing blue eyes.
David had begun to realize his limitations of late. For years, he’d chafed at the fact that he’d been born the younger brother—that Robert was laird and he wasn’t. When Robert had been taken by the English, David had seized the opportunity presented to him. Finally, he led the De Keith clan. Yet that responsibility came at a price.
As laird, he had to manage the likes of Wallace, a man he didn’t trust in the slightest. And then there was Shaw Irvine, who broke truces and intended to lay siege to Dunnottar. But the worst of it was having to deal with Edward Longshanks.
The hate that boiled within him whenever the English king drew near made it hard to hide his true feelings.
Robert always said I’d make a poor diplomat. David fought the urge to scowl at the thought. Aye, but I’ll be the man to end Longshanks’ life.
No, he wasn’t a diplomat. He’d been born to do greater deeds. He’d show them all.
Edward shifted his gaze from David’s momentarily as he glanced up at the darkening sky. “Hurry up then,” he murmured. “Let’s get this over with. Kneel before me, man, and pledge your troth.”
De Keith bowed his head, feigning submission.
Heart pounding now, he stepped forward and lowered himself on one knee. But as he did so, his right hand strayed to the back of his boot and the dirk he’d hidden there.
XXIV
STORM UNLEASHED
CASSIAN CLIMBED THE slope toward the walls of Stirling Castle. The biting wind gusted into him, bringing with it droplets of cold rain. Bowing his head, he grimaced. It was easy to forget that it was summer when the weather changed like this.
Keen to get indoors, Cassian increased his pace. The Bull-Slayer take him, he’d consumed enough ale tonight to bring most men to their knees, yet his gait was still steady. The curse was working against him, keeping his mind clear and his senses sharp even when he sought oblivion.
Before him loomed the great stone archway that led into the outer-bailey. Shadowed figures, hunched in their cloaks, their faces obscured by helms, watched him approach.
The English guards didn’t greet him, and he ignored them.