His Enchantment (14 page)

“Down!” Lord Grey warned.

Snow crunched as everyone took cover in the dense thicket of leaves.

His hand on the hilt of his sword, through the cover, Trálin scanned the horizon.

“What did you see?” King Alexander asked.

“Knights in the distance.” The slide of blades from their sheaths echoed around Trálin as he removed his.

“How many?” Atair asked as he crept closer.

“Eight,” Lord Grey replied, “maybe more.”

“Blast it,” the king whispered. In the flickers of moonlight spread from breaks overhead, against the slide of wind-flung snow, shadows of a mounted knight came into view over the hill. Then another. More men from the group rode into view.

Trálin’s gut sunk. “There are at least fifty men now, Your Grace.”

“More,” the king replied, his voice grim. “Sir Atair.”

The senior fey warrior glanced over. “Aye, Your Grace?”

“Take my wife and Lady Catarine and find safety,” the king ordered.

“Your Grace,” Catarine said, “I will remain here and fight.”

“I need nae go anywhere as well,” Queen Margaret replied, anger in her voice. “I have a weapon and can—”

“They are headed this way!” Trálin said!

“Bedamned!” the king whispered. “It looks as though there is no time to flee, and my queen, you will have your wish. If anything should happen to you . . .”

“We will fight together,” Queen Margaret said, her voice rich with pride.

“We will,” the king agreed.

Shadows moved near the edge of the woods.

“The men are coming into the trees!” Catarine hissed.

“Down!” Trálin whispered.

“You there hidden in the brush!” a deep voice called from the edge of the trees. “Show yourself!”

“Show yourself!” the deep male voice repeated from the edge of the trees.

On a curse, Trálin crept beneath the brush to where the fey warriors hid as his king and queen awaited his report. Fear swept him as he reached Catarine’s side, damned that he could nae protect her, damned the words he must say. “We are gravely outnumbered.” His whispered words echoed between them like a blast of a mace.

Shards of moonlight exposed the fear in Catarine’s eyes. On a shaky breath, she angled her jaw. “We will fight.”

Unto the death.
She’d nae said it, but Trálin understood. He would do the same, had pledged to protect his king when he’d sworn his oath. But she’d nae asked for this fight, and was in Scotland only to find whoever had murdered her uncle.

He scoured his mind for a way to keep her safe. “You, the king and queen, and the fey warriors slip back. I will create a diversion to allow everyone to escape.”

Anger narrowed her brow as she leaned a hand’s breath from his face. “Do you think I would leave you and—”

A stick cracked.

Trálin glanced behind him.

In the shadows, King Alexander crept closer. “What is wrong?”

Catarine cleared her throat. “Your Grace,” she whispered, “Lord Grey was cautioning me on the upcoming battle.”

“Aye,” Trálin said, irritated she gave him no quarter. “Your Grace, the odds are greatly against us.”

The king peered through the wash of leaves, muttered a curse. “’Tis a fool’s lot to dare challenge such a large force.” Surprised, Trálin glanced at the queen noting her grimace to her husband’s words. “You will cede?”

The queen moved to her husband’s side, laid a hand on the king’s arm in a supportive gesture.

“Never,” King Alexander spat. “We will fight.”

“Whoever hides within,” the knight demanded from the outer perimeter of the woods, “come out now. ’Tis your last warning!”

Sword clenched in his hand, King Alexander stood. “We will nae give up but fight!”

Wind shook the thick branches, and in the distance, Trálin caught the murmur of men’s voices.

“Why are they nae attacking?” Catarine asked.

“I am unsure,” King Alexander replied.

“Whatever they are bloody up to,” Trálin ground out, “’tis nay good.”

“King Alexander?” a knight near the edge of the woods called, his confusion evident.

“What in bloody hell?” Trálin muttered.

“State your name,” the king ordered.

“’Tis Sir Aleyn. The Earl of Torc sent us to rescue you and the queen.”

Suspicion ignited, and Trálin leaned close to the king. “Your Grace, though the Earl of Torc is a trusted ally, it might be a trap.”

“Aye,” he whispered. The king turned toward the knight. “How do I know ’tis nae a lie?”

“Your Grace, a sennight ago, a runner reached Sionnach Castle,” the knight replied. “When the Earl of Torc learned of your abduction, he sent us to rescue you.”

“If ’tis true, how have you found us so quickly?” the king asked, suspicion ripe in his voice.

“One of my men caught sight of your party in woods, Your Grace,” Sir Aleyn replied. “As ’twas but shadowed glimpses of several people, we believed ’twas Comyn’s men, which is why we offered a challenge.”

Far from convinced, Trálin clasped his hand on his sword as he stood. “How did you know ’twas the Comyns who abducted the king?”

“State your name,” the guard called.

“’Tis Lord Grey.”

“Lord Grey?” the guard repeated, his voice stunned. “My lord, we thought you dead.”

“I lived,” Lord Grey replied, “but all of my men who fought at my side were killed.”

“Nae all, my lord,” the guard replied. “Sir Gyles was able to crawl to a boat and make it to Loch Leven Castle.”

Sir Gyles was alive? Thank God. “Tell me,” Lord Grey asked, praying more good news would follow. “Did anyone else survive?”

A long silence fell between them, then the knight shook his head. “Nay, my lord.”

Bedamned. His heart aching at the loss, he turned toward the king. “Your Grace, I believe Sir Aleyn speaks the truth.”

“I as well. Come.” King Alexander started toward the knight.

Trálin, along with the others, followed.

Two days later, safe in the confines of Loch Leven Castle, Catarine interlaced her fingers as she and her fey warriors stood in the great room awaiting King Alexander’s entrance. The roaring flames in the hearth offered warmth, but did nae penetrate the chill of her thoughts. Had more attacks occurred since they’d departed the Otherworld? Was anyone else in her family dead?

Trálin laid his hand upon her shoulder.

Warmth swept through her at his touch, kindling longings she must forever quell.

“You are worried,” he said, a furrow in his brow, “but know I will remain by your side until we find those you seek.”

“I canna help but wonder if I was wrong in my belief that you and the other Scots can be of help.”

“Lass, do nae invite unwanted troubles,” Trálin said. “Regardless of your worries, I have many friends whom I can turn to, and I have sent runners out in search of information.”

Nerves shuddered through her. What if they failed? “Trálin, I—”

The door swung open, and the castle guard entered. “I announce the arrival of Alexander, King of Scotland, and his queen, Margaret.”

Catarine curtsied as the others bowed their respect as the royal couple entered.

Silence fell throughout the chamber as the king and queen took their places on the dais.

“The queen and I are deeply grateful to each of you for freeing us,” King Alexander said. “Without your help, we would be dead.”

Her eyes somber, Queen Margaret nodded.

The king’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Know the Comyns will regret their treachery. With the Earl of Torc’s support, I will achieve justice. But”—his gaze paused upon Catarine, then on each of her warriors—“’tis nae the reason I have called you here.” He stood, straightened to his full height. “I gave my word that I would support you in your quest, a promise I will now keep.”

Hope filled Catarine, and she curtsied. “My thanks, Your Grace.”

Shrewd eyes studied her. “Lady Catarine, how many men will you need?”

A question she’d given much thought. “Twenty, Your Grace.”

“It will be done.” King Alexander faced Trálin. “Lord Grey.”

Trálin bowed. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“I have spoken with the master-at-arms, and he is expecting you,” the king said. “He will help your selection of the men necessary.”

“My thanks, Your Grace,” Trálin replied.

The queen stood. “Lady Catarine.”

Curious, Catarine curtsied. “Your Grace?”

“I know you wish to depart this eve,” the queen said, her voice gentle, “but our travel to reach Loch Leven Castle has been exhausting. In addition, it grows late. However anxious you are to leave, I request that you and your men take this night to rest. The extra time will ensure Lord Grey has time to prepare the additional men to depart in the morning.”

Angst rolled through her as she glanced toward the window. Indeed, the red sunset smeared the handcrafted glass. However much she wished to leave this night once Trálin had selected the king’s men, the queen’s concern held wisdom. “Of course, Your Grace,” Catarine replied. “Your generosity is appreciated.”

A smile curved the queen’s mouth, her eyes soft with understanding. “I know you are tired, so we will depart. A maid will show you to your chamber.” She turned to the king. “I am ready to leave, my husband.”

King Alexander stood, and with his wife’s hand atop his, he escorted her from the chamber.

Their guard exited behind them, then closed the door in their wake.

At the soft thud of the door closing, Catarine exhaled.

“With the stone circle nearby, I know you are anxious to leave,” Trálin said, “but a few hours will change naught.”

Atair stepped before her. “Indeed, a night’s rest will be welcome to us all.” He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your chamber.”

She nodded to Atair as her gaze met Trálin’s. “Lord Grey, I will meet you early on the morrow in the stable with the king’s men.”

Trálin’s mouth tightened, then he gave a nod. “I will ensure all is prepared to leave, my lady.”

“My thanks.” With a long last look, Catarine turned. ’Twas for the best for her to retire to her chamber escorted by Atair. Alone with Lord Grey, with her wanting him until she ached, her choice this night might nae be wise.

Moonlight shimmered over the ripple of waves on the loch as Trálin stared from the wall walk of Loch Leven Castle toward the mountains beyond. He fisted his hands at his side, thankful for the blast of icy cold to numb the dangerous thoughts rumbling through his mind. Neither did he miss the covert looks Catarine had given him when they’d awaited the king and queen’s arrival earlier. She wanted him, which helped bloody naught.

Thank God Atair had offered to escort her to her chamber. However much he wanted to be alone with her, with the dangerous attraction between, such folly could invite a decision he might regret.

A decision? Nay, ’twas no decision to be made. He wanted to make love to her. Bedamned her vow, that her realm needed her wedded to the neighboring prince to bring peace, or the fact that she was royalty, he wanted her in his bed.

More important, he could nae forget that she was a fairy.

Errant clouds raced through the sky and splintered the moon’s glow, casting the water in a half-shadow, half-silvery sheen. The eerie blend nurtured the mix of emotions searing his mind.

A slow pounding started in his head, and he rubbed his brow, wishing this night long past.

“You are awake?”

At Catarine’s soft voice, he stilled. God help him. “I am.” He didn’t turn. Didn’t dare. She was the reason he stood here this night, unable to sleep and struggling between wanting to go to her, and knowing that if he did, ’twould be a grave mistake. The gentle slap of waves echoed from below, lending a soft appeal to the moment. He grimaced. “You should be abed.”

The pad of steps upon stone echoed as she moved closer.

Her scent of woman and lilac filled his senses. His body trembled with the need to touch her, to strip her slowly and make love with her until she cried out her release. He closed his eyes.

Bloody hell.

“Trálin?”

“Aye?”

“Will you nae look at me?”

The confusion in her voice eroded his resolve to leave her untouched. “Catarine,” he whispered, “’tis best if you leave.” Silence filled the night, thick with the scent of the oncoming winter, potent with awareness.

“Trálin, please.”

Hurt filled her words, and he damned the entire situation. With a prayer for strength, he turned, met her eyes within the mix of darkness and moonlight. Beyond the worry, in the shimmer of light, he caught the sheen of tears.

“You have been crying.” Shaken, he stepped forward and caught her chin. “Why?”

“After this night we will nae have the chance to be alone again.”

He forced a smile. “But we will have many moments to talk,” he replied, needing to sway her away from the dangerous topic of intimacy on any level.

“You know that is nae what I meant.”

Aye, the problem. “If asked, given the strong feelings we hold toward the other, our nae having time to be alone is for the best.”

A tear pooled on her lower lid, dripped on her cheek to slide down the curve of her chin, and wobbled onto the tip of his thumb. “It should be.”

“God’s teeth.” Trálin drew her against him, loving the feel of her body against his, wanting her forever. “Catarine, we must think of the time ahead, of the duty we each face.”

“Do you think I have nae tried? But each thought fills me with regret.” She looked up at him. “I do nae love Prince Zacheus.”

Trálin lifted her chin with his thumb. “But you love your kingdom, respect your father, and want peace for your land. And—”

Her body trembling, she pulled away. “Forgive me. You are right. I am being selfish. ’Twas weak of me to come here in such a state.”

“You are nae weak, but a woman of passion, one who loves her people, and is torn between the two.” Before he did something he would regret, he caught her arm and guided her toward the turret.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To
your
chamber,” he replied, the desire in his voice betraying his need.

She remained silent.

Torchlight from the wall sconces flickered against the turret walls in a sensual display as they descended, echoing the fact that never would they have more than the stolen kisses from days past.

As they entered the corridor, he halted before his door, glanced to her entry several doors away. “Good night, Catarine. I will wait here until you have gone inside your room.”

Eyes dark with desire met his. “Trálin, I—”

Body aching, he pressed a finger over her lips. “On with you, lass, I will see you in the morning.”

A smile trembled on her mouth. “Good night then.” She hesitated.

“Go on, we both need our sleep.”

She arched a brow. “And will you be able to sleep this night?”

The truth. “Nay.”

“Nor I,” she said.

The pad of steps echoed up the turret. In the entry, a lone figure came into view.

Panic swept him. “’Tis Atair!”

In the torchlight, her face paled. “He canna see us together. Go inside your chamber, hurry!”

Atair started to turn down the corridor.

Blast it. Trálin hauled her inside his chamber and shut the door behind him with a quiet snap. “Say naught,” he whispered.

In the candlelight, wide eyed, she nodded.

On edge, he pressed his ear to the hewn wood.

The sound of steps increased, then moved past. Several moments later, the clunk of a door shutting echoed from down the corridor.