Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,55

However, no one blocked his path either, for they’d seen him depart earlier. They all knew he was a member of the De Keith party.

The outer-bailey was deserted. The worsening weather had driven folk indoors.

Cassian crossed the courtyard, passed the stables and storage buildings, and entered the inner-bailey through another archway. The keep rose before him, its solid walls leached of color against a leaden sky.

A storm was about to unleash itself upon them.

Even so, Cassian didn’t feel like re-entering the keep just now. He might accidentally see Aila; it was best if he kept a low profile for the next few days.

Coward. He grimaced at the thought. He was—but if he’d listened to the voice of reason that had counselled him wisely ever since his departure from Dunnottar, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

Despite the buffeting wind, he’d hopefully find refuge in the walled garden to the north-west of the keep. He wasn’t ready to see anyone at present, and the garden had given him some solace earlier that day.

Cassian altered his direction, steering himself toward the rose entwined archway that separated the inner-bailey and the garden beyond.

He’d just stepped through it when a sight in the heart of the space, below where the Kelpie’s head reared skyward, made him halt.

Two men were fighting.

And not two soldiers or servants—but Edward of England and Laird David De Keith.

For an instant, Cassian merely stared, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

De Keith had just drawn a dirk. He slashed it wildly at Edward’s throat, the thin blade flashing in the gloaming.

Edward ducked back, just barely avoiding being cut across the windpipe. He moved fast, despite that he was much older than his opponent, his red surcoat billowing in the wind.

Cassian remained frozen, his gaze riveted on the two men.

He’d witnessed a lot of fights over the centuries, and he knew that there was nothing he could do. By the time he reached them, it would be over.

De Keith wielded the blade savagely, but without precision. His wild slashing would be his undoing. Both men wore chainmail, so there were few vulnerable spots to attack—but to have any chance of success, accuracy was required.

As he watched, Edward retaliated.

The English king ducked again, caught De Keith by the wrist, and twisted hard. The laird cursed and released the dirk.

Edward moved with breathtaking swiftness then, revealing himself for the warrior he was. He scooped up the dagger, grabbed De Keith by the hair, and yanked his head back—and then he drove the blade into his throat.

One heartbeat passed, and then another.

Edward withdrew the dirk blade and stabbed De Keith once more. A choking sound drifted across the garden, blending with the whistling wind. The laird fell to his knees, mouth gaping, eyes bulging.

A chill swept over Cassian.

Idiot … what has De Keith done?

The thought brought Cassian out of his reverie. Swiveling on his heel, he turned and sprinted back across the inner-bailey toward the keep.

Aila was having difficulty focusing.

She sat in the guests’ solar, along with Lady Gavina, Lady Elizabeth, and Jean, while the wind battered at the closed shutters. A draft managed to claw its way into the chamber. It feathered across Aila’s face and made the fire in the hearth gutter.

Across the solar, she could hear the soft cadence of the ladies’ voices. However, she paid no attention to their conversation.

Instead she stared down at the hem she was mending. It felt as if she were moving through porridge this evening.

Once the storm of hurt and anger had spent itself, once the tears had burned themselves dry, Aila felt like a husk. She’d gone blindly about her duties for the rest of the day. Supper was approaching, yet she had no desire to go down to the kitchen and join the other servants. She hadn’t eaten anything since dawn; her belly was a hard knot of misery. The thought of forcing food down made her feel sick.

She longed for Lady Gavina to dismiss her for the rest of the evening, to see to her own needs for once. Instead, Aila wished to return to her tiny chamber, curl up on her bed, and pretend the world didn’t exist.

The ache in her chest was almost unbearable, and every time she relived those moments in the alcove, bile crept up her throat.

She felt such an utter pudding-head.

I should never have taken Fyfa’s advice. Aila swallowed hard at how eagerly she’d listened to the steward’s wife. She’d been furious at Fyfa earlier, yet now