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

not enough they had very nearly hanged her this morn; the daft wench had gone after the one man who might have pardoned her out of hand.
    His face mottled with anger—or perhaps with fever—David quit the hall, grumbling something about ruined tunics.
    There was little Jaime could do for the lass now.
    Her fate was in David’s hands.
    Jaime was sworn by oath to uphold David’s law. But on the off chance that it might make a difference he sent dinner to the laird’s chamber. A hearty meal would go a long way toward soothing the king’s ire, and the sooner he received it the better, but be damned if had any inkling why he felt so compelled to save the vixen when she clearly had a death wish for herself. She might be his prisoner, but the thought of her blood adorning the edge of his blade made his supper sour in his gut.
    Once the hall was returned to order, he mounted the tower steps to see to David. Fortunately for the lass, he knew the King to be a just man. If Jaime gave him a bit of time, not too much, and filled his belly with ale and food, perhaps it would settle his ire enough to see the girl properly ransomed to her family, perhaps with a promise of fealty. Thankfully, by the time Jaime arrived and knocked upon the door, the king’s voice was much gentler. “Come in,” he said.
    Jaime shoved open the heavy oak door, and found the king seated before a lit brazier aside a small table replete with victuals. A tankard of ale froze halfway to his thin lips and he held it in midair, waiting for Jaime to enter and close the door. He looked tired, careworn, and far older than his forty-two years. It seemed to Jaime that the past two years alone had aged him far more than the ten before. Once he was certain Jaime came alone, he said, “She’s off her bloody head!”
    Jaime gave him a nod and a grim smile. “She’s a madbit, certainly,” he agreed, and then dreading the coming discussion, he wandered over to the laird’s bed, examining the hefty furs as David’s gaze followed him across the bower.
    Aside from a peek into the door, this was Jaime’s first time in the laird’s chamber and he found it opulent by most standards. The covers were plush and well stitched. Doubtless, they would keep him warm throughout the winter—unlike his prisoners down in that cell. The cold alone would brittle their bones.
    Off her head, indeed—that, or she had cause to be angry with David and Jaime considered that a moment, for he suspected she might.
    Certainly she seemed to know David, and David seemed to know her as well. Jaime was hardly privy to every interaction David had with the men he sought to rule.
    “The room is well appointed,” the king remarked, mistaking the turn of Jaime’s thoughts. “I suspected MacLaren indulged himself at my expense.”
    Jaime shrugged. “I did not know the man.” In fact he had never met Donnal MacLaren’s youngest grandson. He knew him by reputation alone, but as reputations went, Jaime had nary a stone to throw.
    The king blew a hefty sigh. The intensity of it seemed to snuff the oxygen from the room. The candles on their braces flickered desperately, choking on their wicks. “I wish I dinna,” the king confessed.
    Jaime discarded the furs upon the bed, wondering how well King David knew Rogan MacLaren. David wasn’t always quite as forthcoming as Jaime might have wished. The king had a grand scheme though he wasn’t particularly inclined to share it. However, knowing his character, he had long ago placed his faith in his king; he didn’t simply serve David, he trusted, respected, and aye, he loved the man.
    In the end he realized that unlike some, all David did, he did because he believed it would bring peace to those he ruled. In fact, some day Jaime was certain they would name him a saint, for his patience and benevolence would be far more apparent in hindsight. In the meantime, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh’s grandson was bound to earn the animosity of those who didn’t