His Enchantment (2 page)

Aching inside, she shook her head. “I canna leave him.”

“Canna?” Atair strode to her. “What are you talking about?”

Unsure looks passed between the fey warriors.

Emotion swamped Catarine, and urged her to where Trálin MacGruder lay moaning in pain. “I canna explain more.” She ran toward the noble.

The soft thud of Atair’s steps echoed behind her. “Catarine!”

Sunlight broke through the clouds as she knelt beside the injured earl.

Atair caught her forearm, drew her to her feet. “What do you think you are doing? Do you want to get yourself killed?”

Lord Grey moaned.

Stiffening at the pain he was enduring, at his each labored breath, she shook her head. “The Scot is far from a threat.”

Atair’s gaze narrowed. “He is human.”

“I know,” she replied, her words somber. “But here”—she touched her finger against her brow—“I know I must help him.”

“To aid a human is forbidden,” Sionn argued as he and the other warriors halted nearby. “We are granted the ability to leave a thought in their mind, naught more.”

“I know,” she replied.

Atair’s mouth tightened. “What of the trail of your uncle’s murderers? Is it now unimportant?”

Guilt swept her. Her fey warriors were right. To help this Scot in any mortal manner went against the laws of the Otherworld. She started to turn away.

“D-do nae go,” Lord Grey whispered as he lay upon the ground. He coughed, and his entire body rattled. “I must save my king and queen.”

Rays of sunlight illuminated Trálin MacGruder’s hard-boned face; that of a warrior, of a man determined. But it also highlighted a firm mouth that would make a woman dream, and his green eyes, which behind his pain, shone kindness.

“You speak of King Alexander and Queen Margaret,” she stated, pulling herself from her wanton thoughts.

Shrewd, pain-filed eyes studied her. “Aye,” Lord Grey replied. “They were abducted.”

Catarine glanced toward where the royal couple had been escorted away. “By whom?”

“I do nae know, but I must f-find out.” On a curse, he tried to sit up.

“Do nae move. You are wounded,” Catarine said as she knelt, placed her palm against his shoulder, and held him down.

His body trembled. “My men?”

Heart in her throat, she took in the bodies strewn about, the scent of blood strong against the fresh Highland morning. “I am sorry, they are dead.”

“God in heaven,” the earl hissed.

Atair stepped toward her. “Catarine, we must go.”

With a frown, she met her friend’s gaze. “With his wounds, if I leave him he will die.”

Frustration darkened her senior fey warrior’s eyes. “And the tracks of the English knights we must follow?” Throughout her life she had been confident in her decisions, a trait the fey guards appreciated; but for the first time, she felt unsure. Neither did she forget Sionn’s mention of the Otherworld law forbidding her to aid Lord Grey. ’Twas her choice, one filled with ramifications once her father learned of her actions—if she decided to remain and offer the earl aid.

“Atair, take Kuircc, Magnus, Ranulf, and Drax to the stone circle and spread out,” she said. “If you find any trace of the English knights’ passing, return to me.”

Atair nodded, his mouth grim. “And when we return, if we have found a trail, you will leave with us?”

She stiffened. “Your question is unseemly.”

“Aye,” Atair agreed, “as is your request to remain and aid a huma—”

“Enough,” she said with a covert gesture toward Lord Grey. They knew nae this human, nor could they trust him enough to speak freely of any mention of the Otherworld.

With a frown, Atair waved the four men to follow him. Their steps soft upon the earth, they hurried toward the towers of timeworn stone.

Sionn nodded. “I will remain nearby.” He moved several steps away.

“En-English knights?” Lord Grey asked, his confusion evident.

“Do nay talk or move about,” Catarine said, settling beside him. “I need to tend to your wounds.”

“No time,” he gasped, his face strained as he tried to sit up. “Mu-Must save my king.”

Irritated, she held his shoulders to prevent him from moving further. “If you attempt to follow your king now, with your injuries, you will die.”

Die, mayhap, Trálin mused, but if he did nae attempt to follow whoever had abducted King Alexander III and Queen Margaret, the royal couple’s lives could be in danger.

Still, if whoever had stormed Loch Leven Castle last night sought to claim the crown, why had they nae killed the king and queen in their bed? Naught made sense, but by God he would learn the truth, and set them free.

He shifted and pain slammed in his head. Trálin fought for consciousness. Bedamned, he must leave.

“Lord Grey?” the soft, lyrical voice called.

Through the murky haze of agony, Trálin focused on the woman. As if a spell cast, beneath the sheen of the fragile morning sunlight, he stared, transfixed by her beauty. The intensity of her gaze drew him, made him yearn to hold her against him and trust her with his secrets.

Shaken by what she made him feel, he dismissed the unwanted thoughts, ascribing them to his injuries. He tried to move; she held him firm. “I must discover where the men who abducted the king and queen are headed.”

“Stirling Castle,” she replied. “Now lay back and let me tend you.”

Suspicion crawled through him. “How do you know where they are going?”

She hesitated. “I overheard the knights as they led them away.”

“What else did they say?”

“Lord Grey,” she said, her frustration clear. “If you allow me to care for you, you can ask all of the questions you wish.”

“Will you answer them?” he asked, finding himself intrigued by this woman who looked like a fairy, but held herself with the confident grace of a warrior. Neither did he miss her unusual garb. Her gown, a sturdy yet silky material, adorned with a belt holding several gemstones of striking quality. He hesitated. Who was she? From the quality of her garb a person of wealth, or the daughter of a powerful noble. Regardless, she was a stranger he could far from trust. At her silence, he eyed her hard. “You said if I allowed you to tend me, I may ask all of the questions I wish, but will you answer them?”

A smile touched her mouth. Fled. “Mayhap.”

“Fine then.” Gritting his teeth, he lay back against the cool, damp earth.

“Now, do nae move.” With efficient movements, she removed his mail and exposed his wounds. “I will be back in a trice.” She started to rise.

“Catarine.”

The beautiful woman hesitated.

“I heard one of the men address you as such. ’Tis your name, is it nae?”

“Aye.” Her expression cautious, she stepped back.

“’Tis a name befitting your beauty, a name a man savors as it rolls across his tongue.”

Any warmth in her eyes faded. “Methinks you have had much practice in wooing a woman. Save your sweetened words for another. You are far from what I seek in a man.”

Far from put off, he was left intrigued by her cool dismissal. Regardless of what she believed, never had he spoken to a woman in such regard. “Do you n-nae feel it?”

She shot a nervous look toward a lean warrior with blond hair standing nearby. At his comment, the warrior’s eyes narrowed.

The beautiful woman met Trálin’s gaze, hers wary. “I feel naught.”

From her reaction, he believed she lied. And what of her quick dismissal? She seemed dubious of his compliment. Why? As if he had time to ponder such?

“I will be but a moment,” she said. “I am fetching some water to cleanse your wounds.”

Curious, Trálin watched for her reaction. “I practice naught but the truth.”

“Do you?”

Her skeptical reply intrigued him further, and he watched her, wished for the full light of day to catch every nuance. “Aye.”

She studied him a long moment, then left. A short while later she returned with a crude bowl woven from grass. She knelt beside him, tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of her garb, and gently began to rinse his wounds.

The scent of the grass and the soft shimmer of lilac filled his every breath. “What clan are you from?”

She flushed the injury with water, then pressed a damp cloth over his wound.

At the whip of pain he hissed. “Was that my answer?”

A slender brow arched.

’Twould seem the lass was more stubborn than most. Then, as she was the daughter of a noble, he shouldn’t be surprised. Exhausted, Trálin laid his head against the cold ground. “The men with you, who are they?”

Gentle fingers cleansed the exterior of another wound. “My guard.”

Though they were quiet, he heard authority in her words. “You are nobility.”

At his statement, Catarine stilled. “Aye.”

Having traveled with the king since his youth, and now as King Alexander’s personal guard, how had he missed seeing this stunning woman before? “Who is your father?”

She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “You would nae know him.”

Blackness threatened. Trálin MacGruder kept conscious, barely. “Lady Catarine, as a Scottish noble in high standing, I have met all nobility in Scotland and most in England and France as well as several other countries. No doubt during my travels, at the very least, I have heard of your father.”

Her full lips tightened.

“Is it such a mystery?” he asked, curious at what incited her reserve. By her burr she was Scottish, and by her speech, learned.

“How did you come to serve the Scottish king?” she asked.

Scottish king?
Why would she refer to King Alexander III as the Scottish king and nae
our
king? God’s teeth, mayhap her loyalties lay with another sovereign?

With the abduction of his sovereign this day, dare he answer her? More worrisome, he was the only person left from the king’s personal guard who had seen them abducted from Loch Leven Castle. And what of this woman’s reservation in telling him from which clan she hailed or who her father was? Something was amiss here, and he would bloody well find out what.

“Lady Catarine,” he said, his words cautious, “you stated you overheard the men who abducted King Alexander say they were taking him to Stirling Castle.”

She stilled. “Aye.”

“What else did you hear?”

“That . . .” She looked away.

By God he would know. “Tell me!”

Anger darkened her gaze as she faced him. “That if King Alexander doesna comply with their lord’s request, he will die.”

Though it was slight, Catarine caught the flicker of distrust in Lord Grey’s eyes. As he was a warrior, a man loyal to his king, she understood. He held suspicions of her being in league with those who abducted his king.

She worried her finger across the leather sheath of her dagger. Never had she considered that Lord Grey would question her about her family. Then, she’d nae considered they’d speak for any length. Regardless, whatever mayhem was about with Scotland’s sovereign, ’twas nae a concern of the fey.

But the Scottish lord would offer her little trust without some admission. “I am of nobility.”

Lord Grey arched a brow. “As you travel with your guard, ’tis obvious.”

Catarine ignored Sionn’s frown. “You stated you are the king’s personal guard.”

“Aye,” Lord Grey replied.

From his hesitation, there was more. “And?”

A ruddy hue darkened on his face. “And he is a man for whom I would give my life.”

A friend. Interesting.

Shrewd eyes studied her. “Who is King Alexander III to you?”

Though soft, demand echoed in Lord Grey’s question. “A man whom I have heard much about, that for one of his age he is a man of wisdom, and as a king it is said he garners many a loyal alliance.”

“It is said?” he asked.

She must watch her words. The man was too quick. “I misspoke.”

A shrewd look settled on his face. “And your father is?”

“A man I doubt you have ever met,” she replied.

“Why do you evade my questions?” the Scot asked, his pain-ridden voice gruff.

She ignored Sionn’s grimace. “I am nae from your country.” The truth, but how would he react if she informed him she was a fairy from the Otherworld?

A shiver visibly wracked his body. The Scot’s fisted hands turned white and he closed his eyes.

Catarine withdrew a blanket from the roll she carried and covered him. “Please do nae speak more. You must rest.”

His eyes opened, narrowed. “Do you s-support my king? I must know.” His last words fell out in a rough whisper.

Catarine nodded. If nae from the Otherworld, his king was a man she could give her allegiance to.

“Aye,” he rasped, “that I believe.” He struggled to speak, but with a fractured breath, his lids fluttered closed.

She moved closer.

After several moments, his breathing grew even.

“Lord Grey is unconscious,” she said. “With how he is suffering, ’tis for the best.”

“Catarine, what is going on?” Sionn asked.

At the soft concern in her friend’s voice, guilt wove through her. She met the fey warrior’s querying gaze and stood. “I do nae know, but I sense he is important to me.”

“Important to you, how?”

“I canna explain, but I feel it,” she replied. “I must stay until he is well enough to move.”

“You promised Atair if they picked up the trail, you would leave.”

“I know.” Guilt swept her as she glanced to where her senior fey warrior and the others searched the area around the stone circle for any sign of where the English knights had passed. “If . . . any sign of a trail remains.”

“From the frustrated look on Atair’s face and the erratic angles they are walking around the tall grass,” Sionn said, “it looks as though they are having little success.”

“So it seems.” Unease slid through her. “Sionn, why do I find myself caring what happens to this human? Do you think that, like the spell-tipped arrows that killed my uncle, my draw to Lord Grey is another ploy cast from magic?”

Lines of worry marred his brow. “I do nae know. If whoever is behind the attack has the ability to bring humans to the Otherworld as well as erase the English knight’s trail, then their power is great.”

Scraping her teeth across her lower lip, Catarine studied the unconscious lord. An ache built in her chest. Was it a spell? Never had she heard of a fairy being attracted to a human.

A yell sounded.

Had they found the trail? She glanced toward the stone circle.

Atair waved the fey warriors to him. The men gathered around him. A head shook, then another. A frown deepened on his brow as Atair stepped from the group and strode toward Catarine and Sionn, the others following suit.

Frustration built within her. “They have found naught.”

“Who has found naught?” Trálin asked, his voice rough as he fought his semi-conscious state.

The woman hesitated, then a smile touched her mouth. “You are awake.”

“Aye,” he replied, refusing to have his question dismissed. “Who has found naught?”

The steady pad of steps upon the grass grew.

“My men are returning. Stay still, please.” She turned toward her incoming warriors.

Stay? Like bloody hell. He shoved the blanket away. His body trembling, Trálin shoved into a sitting position.

At the soft scrape of his body against the frozen ground, she turned. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Standing.” Pain burst through Trálin as he struggled to his feet. His vision blurred, and he wavered.

Catarine caught his forearm, her hold gentle. “Please lay back down; your wounds are serious.”

Thankful his eyesight was clearing, he ignored the pounding in his head and focused on the approaching warriors. “Mayhap, but I have suffered worse.” Nor would he lay helpless around strangers, more so those who would nae reveal their full names.

The soft crunch of grass sounded nearby.

A fierce-looking man with coal-black hair secured behind his back met his gaze, glanced at her hand, then frowned. “He is awake, then.”

“Aye.” Red touched her cheeks as she withdrew her hand from Trálin’s arm.

“’Twould seem he will recover,” the dark-haired man stated, little welcome in his voice.

She cleared her throat. “He will need to rest.”

Uneasy silence fell between them.

“Atair,” Lady Catarine said, “did you find anything?”

The dark-haired man grimaced. “’Tis best if we speak in private.”

“Nay,” Trálin stated, anger storming past the pain. “You will speak here.”

The woman whirled. “You will nae—”

“My king and queen have been abducted, you avoid telling me who your father is, nor have you told me from what clan you hail,” Trálin stated, far from giving a damn if his outburst pleased her. “I demand an answer.”

The hiss of a blade echoed in the air as the dark-haired man stepped forward. “You will nae speak to Pr—”

“Atair!” Lady Catarine ordered. “Enough.”

The warrior muttered a curse. With a cool look, he sheathed his sword. Her face paled. “My regrets, Lord Grey.”

“Do nae apologize, my lady. Your knight but defends you,” Trálin said. “If I stood in his stead, I would do the same.”

Sunlight flickered over the horizon, the golden rays shimmering off the mist-laden grass. Time was passing. He must give chase if he was to save his king and queen. “My lady, you seek English knights, why?”

The dark-haired warrior stiffened at her side.

Her wary eyes studied him. “The reasons are my own.”

“Nae if they involve my king,” Trálin stated.

“They do nae,” she replied.

Lord Grey hesitated. “You are sure?”

“Tell him nothing,” the dark-haired warrior stated.

With a frustrated sigh, she faced the man. “Atair, did you find any sign of the trail?”

The dark-haired knight shot Trálin a cool look before turning back to her. “Naught. ’Twas the same as before.”

Her shoulders sagged. Lady Catarine met Trálin’s gaze, the anger and pain in them stealing his breath. However suspicious he was of her, she struggled with whatever conflict she dealt with.

“My lady,” Trálin said, his voice softening. “I do not mean you, nor your men, any harm. Neither do I know, or am I in league with, the English knights.”

The man she called Atair grunted.

Trálin ignored him. “My lady, are you sure the men you seek are English knights?”

A light breeze kicked up, tossed her blond hair against her cheek. “Aye.”

Why would the English be this far north? King Alexander had received nay writ from King Henry of his intent to send his men into Scotland. As the Scottish king’s personal guard, his sovereign would have informed him of news of such import. Unease swamped Trálin like a cesspit. Unless King Henry was involved with whoever had abducted the royal couple and sought to increase his power. Bloody hell. With each thought, he found naught but more questions.

Catarine rubbed her arm. “Why do you ask?”

Trálin grimaced as he shifted the weight off of his injured leg. “There is no reason for English knights to be on Scottish soil.”

“We had hoped to follow them to discover who had sent them,” she explained.

“For what purpose?” Trálin asked.

She paused. “They will lead us to whoever sent them to murder my uncle.”

“I am sorry, lass,” Trálin said, too aware of the difficult emotions one struggled with after the loss of one you loved.

“My thanks,” she replied. “We caught sight of them as they were leaving and have trailed them to the stone circle. Now, we canna find any trace of them.”

“Lady Catarine,” the knight with the black hair said. “I ask that you use caution in what you share.”

Trálin held the man’s gaze, far from intimidated by the fierce glare. The warrior she’d called Atair didna like him, which was fine with him. “My lady, what was your uncle doing to raise ire so that the English knights would be sent into Scotland with lethal intent?”

She hesitated.

The lass held secrets. Nor would a lone man against her and her warriors find out.

After a long moment, she nodded. “I do nae know who sent them or their reason for taking his life, but I must discover both.”

As much as he wanted to ask more, with each question she gave him little in reply. For now she’d tell him little more about her uncle’s murder or her. Regardless, he found her words sincere.

“Are you sure the men you chase are English?” Trálin asked.

“Aye,” she replied. “One of my guards caught a glimpse of the men as they were escaping.”

Trálin mulled over the information. “Do you believe the knights were sent by King Henry?”

She shrugged. “I am unsure.”

“My lady,” Trálin said. “If I am to help you—”

“My lord, you would help us?” she asked.

He needed to discover if a connection existed between King Henry, her uncle’s murder, and King Alexander’s abduction. God in heaven, all thoughts pointed to the English king preparing to make a bid to lay siege and claim Scotland. Except, that made little sense. King Henry was a man of peace. But then, many a man was lured by the temptation of power.

“Aye, I will help you,” Lord Grey replied, “But first you will help to free my king.”

Atair grunted. “We do nae need delays.”

“’Twould be but days.” Alone he could nae challenge the abductors and free his king.

“Why would you want us to help you first?” Catarine asked.

“Blast it,” Atair said. “You are nae considering his request?”

Shrewd eyes studied Trálin. “Atair, I want to hear him out.”

Her lead warrior’s mouth tightened. “If we help Lord Grey, by the time we return, any trace of the English knights’ trail would be long past.”

“And what have you found now?” Trálin asked, tired of his suspicion.

“Naught,” Catarine replied, “but how could you help us days from now if we have nay trail?”

Trálin glanced toward the stone circle where her men had searched, then back to the woman. “Once King Alexander and his queen are freed, with his gratitude at your assistance, I am confident he will agree to assign me a contingent of knights to help find the English knights you seek.” More so if he suspected the English king was plotting to seize Scotland.

The black-haired man cursed. “We do nae need this Scotsman’s aid.”

Her ire building, Catarine turned to Atair. “And what are we to do, return to our home and pray that no one else dies?”

Her senior fey knight’s mouth tightened. “You would be safe.”

“Would I?” she demanded. “Without us knowing exactly who is behind the assassination as well as the extent of their plans, my entire family’s lives may be in peril.”

“We canna find a trail, which leads me to ask why? ’Tis nae natural,” Atair said with emphasis. “So how is having this Scot or more men going to help us find what we canna see? In a sennight, the weather could easily have washed away any wisp of a trail.”

The Scot’s jaw tightened. “I know the land, the people who live here. If Englishmen have passed through, I will find out.”

Atair rounded on the Lord Grey. “If we help free your king and queen, then after you find naught, we will be left with but mere words.”

“And if we do nae try, we will be left with the same,” she stated, her heart aching. “Listen to me. By helping Lord Grey, we have a chance to find who is behind this treachery.” Eyes angry, Atair held her gaze, but Catarine refused to look away. “Tell me,” she whispered, damning that they had little but hope to risk their lives upon, “do we give up the slightest chance to find whoever murdered my uncle?”

Her senior fey warrior’s jaw tightened. “This discussion is moot. You promised after we searched for the trail, you would return . . . home.”

“I agreed only if you found a sign of the English knights,” Catarine replied, her voice crisp, “which you didna.”

Atair muttered a curse beneath his breath. “What if the reason is one we did nae consider—’tis erased?”

“Erased?” she asked, a sickening in her stomach.

“Aye,” Atair replied, “erased by whoever allowed the English knights entrance to our”—he glanced at the Scot—“castle.”

Atair meant the Otherworld, a fact he didna wish to disclose to the human. Blast it, he believed whoever led the English knights had enough power to erase the trail with magic. Angry tears burned her throat. If Atair was right, Lord Grey would be of nay help, and their aiding to free his king would be naught but a waste of precious time.