True Love Brides 02 - The Highlander’s Curse (33 page)

“I knew he had a scheme!”

“And Orson knew Andrew was heir to a holding in the west, but perhaps did not know its name. He was jealous of the injustice of a younger knight having a legacy while he did not.”

“Wait! The son had a beauteous voice. Remember when Andrew told that tale at Seton Manor?”

“Beauteous but not beguiling.” Garrett nodded. “And he recounted tale that showed the fair sister to disadvantage.”

“And the older son, too.” Annelise’s eyes lit. “We must go to Killairig!”

Garrett stayed her with a touch as he heard the thoughts of creatures in the forest. They scurried out of the path of a predator, a creature with thoughts Garrett could not discern. Because of the reactions of the other animals, he was aware of it moving closer to the hut and the clearing.

“The wolf comes,” Annelise whispered.

“The other animals fear it.”

“But you cannot discern its thoughts.”

Garrett smiled at Annelise, liking her insistence and her confidence. He kissed her then, slowly and deeply, savoring all she gave him, for he could do naught else. They resolved this together, which was the best possible portent for their future. She was flushed and her lips were swollen when they parted, the sparkle in her eyes making Garrett think of celebrating their hand fast anew.

That gave impetus to his plans. “We will not linger here and await your wolf,” he said. “It is a long ride to Killairig, and I would begin in daylight.”

Annelise nodded. “I agree that sooner is better.” She stretched up and kissed his cheek, her confidence tempering his fear. “But you will not need to defend us against the wolf. You will see.”

Garrett said naught to that. Annelise went into the cabin to pack her things, then returned to him. Garrett listened while she was gone, then saddled Yseult. He looked around the place he knew so well, said a silent farewell to Mhairi and Seamus, then lifted Annelise into the saddle and rode out.

He watched for the wolf every step of the way, but never caught a glimpse of it.

*

To Stewart’s thinking, there was something uncanny about Killairig.

Andrew told the others when their party crossed into his father’s lands, but Stewart saw the difference with his own eyes. He could not explain it, but the forests were darker in Killairig and the shadows deep within them gave the impression of being crowded. When he stared into the forest, though, he saw naught but leaves and trees.

The streams forded by the horses gushed so loudly that they seemed to be making comment, and the birds that swarmed the road at intervals seemed to be chattering. Stewart could not shake the sense that a thousand creatures watched their progress, and many reported upon it to someone. It made no sense, for the creatures of the forest did not routinely care so much about a small party of travelers, but Stewart could not shake his sense of pending doom.

He watched as Andrew grew taller in his saddle, that knight’s gaze brightening in anticipation of something that might have been more important even than home. Stewart realized how little he knew of the younger knight, for Orson had monopolized all conversations. Perhaps Andrew had a betrothed who awaited him here. That would explain the glint in his eyes.

Orson, for his part, became quieter, which was a change to be celebrated.

Sadly, Stewart felt little other cause to celebrate. At his first glimpse of Killairig’s keep—a robust stone tower silhouetted against the sparkling blue of the sea—his heart should have leapt, for it was most fine. Instead, he swallowed as his heart plummeted to his toes and he fought the urge to turn his steed and flee.

It was most curious. Stewart was not a whimsical man, and he was not one to put much stock in portents. This perhaps was because he seldom felt one himself, but he felt trouble in the air as surely as the weight of a hand on the back of his neck.

Killairig’s village was oddly desolate. For a holding in such a beautiful setting, surrounded by forests that should be abundant, there were remarkably few residents in the village. Those he glimpsed were hollow-eyed and gaunt, like specters come from a ravaged land. Stewart reasoned that these were not the residents in truth, for they were few and the number of homes was larger. He decided that the true residents must be at the board within the hall, sharing in the laird’s bounty.

Then he noticed that the crucifix on the chapel was broken. It looked to have been broken for some time, struck by lightning perhaps, given the burning of the wood. Why had no one repaired it? He might have asked, but Andrew spurred his horse to reach the gates more quickly, and Orson followed suit. Stewart exchanged a glance with Percy, but said naught.

He fought a strange sense that they rode into a trap when their horses stepped beneath the portcullis of Killairig. That feeling was not aided by the gate being dropped shut behind them with a resonant clang, or the way the guards never met his gaze.

Such thinking was folly. Stewart scoffed at the nonsense in his own mind. The hall was well made and graciously proportioned. There were staff aplenty to take care of the steeds, and if Zephyr balked at being led away by them, it was likely due to the location being unfamiliar.

He could not shake his irksome feeling, not even when the Lady of Killairig came to greet them. She was a gracious beauty, her hair as dark as a raven’s wing and her eyes darker still. She wore a long-sleeved gown of deep blue, richly embroidered in silver, and silver slippers on her feet. Her cuffs fell over her hands to her knuckles, hiding the skin in a way that seemed demure. Perhaps it was to make the gems in her rings appear to flash more brightly. She kissed Andrew with all the affection one would expect from a mother, but still there was something in her gaze that made Stewart shiver.

“I am Lady Rowena,” she murmured to Stewart, her voice low and rich. “I beg of you to call me Rowena.”

Stewart swallowed, knowing that he never would do so.

The laird, it seemed, was too ill to leave his bed. The lady Rowena invited them all into the hall, making many pretty apologies for her sickened spouse. To Stewart, it seemed he moved through a dream, with all talk at a distance. The hall was decked in greenery, as if it were Christmas, and fires roared on two hearths. The musicians played more sweetly than any he had ever heard and a golden wine flowed in quantity. It must be mead, for there could be no grapes in this vicinity. All appeared to be lovely, but not quite right. Stewart felt that if he squinted, or turned his head quickly, he would see behind this guise of a normal hall to the truth.

Or perhaps an impoverished one. He could not rid himself of the memory of the village.

He was about to chide himself anew when the lady Rowena offered him a chalice of the golden mead, her hands cupping the bowl as she held it to him. The cuffs of her long sleeves fell back ever so slightly at her move, and Stewart only just hid his reaction.

For he saw a blue-black pattern on the lady’s skin. There were whorls and tendrils curling over her flesh, the tips of which appeared on the backs of her wrists. Stewart had seen such marks before and knew their import.

Their hostess was Fae.

Not one morsel would cross his lips in this place. He smiled at her and bent as if to sip from the welcome cup, keeping his mouth resolutely closed. The mead touched his mouth but he did not taste it, and as soon as the lady lifted the cup away, Stewart wiped the mead from his lips. He watched the rest of his party drink and knew himself a man apart.

And perhaps the only one who might willingly choose to leave.

*

Rowena had no use for mortal men who defied her. She had one sick abed, thanks to the potion she had administered to him, and now one in her hall who thought he could outwit her.

She could be rid of them both, very simply.

She ensured the meal was laid to her specifications and that the new arrivals were seated comfortably. She pretended not to notice that the warrior Stewart did not eat or drink, but moved through the company, chatting with those in attendance. She certainly did not reveal that she could hear the warrior’s suspicious thoughts.

She dispatched her most reliable maid to take the evening potion to her lord husband. “If he slumbers, leave it by his bed,” she dictated and the girl hastened to do as bidden.

After another turn around the room, Rowena sat beside Stewart and turned her smile upon him. “You are quiet, sir,” she said. “I hope the company does not displease you.”

“Of course not, my lady. I apologize that I am tired after so long a ride.”

“And the fare does not please you? I have not seen a morsel cross your lips.”

His gaze flashed, his fear of her clear for that moment, but Rowena continued to smile at him. “When I am so tired as this, my lady, I cannot even eat or drink.” He yawned in a feeble attempt to reinforce his lie, but Rowena was not fooled.

“You are too tired even to talk? It must have been quite a ride. My son must have been in a great hurry to arrive home.” She nodded to Andrew, who lifted his cup in salute to her.

“I am not so young as once I was, my lady.”

Rowena laughed. “But young enough to charm the ladies, I am sure. Come, Stewart, charm me on this night.”

The warrior bowed. “I apologize, my lady, for I have not the gift of making fine conversation. It matters little if I am tired or not.”

She laughed lightly, as if he made a jest. “Oh, but you do not know that I am familiar with you men of war,” she said, as if teasing him. “And that I have a weakness for such measured conversation.”

“Indeed, my lady?”

“Indeed. My husband, too, is taciturn when he has ridden far.” She wrinkled her nose. “In fact, he is taciturn most of the time.”

Stewart smiled. “If a lifetime in your company could not grant him charm, my lady, a single evening will not do as much for me.”

Rowena laughed. “That is fairly said. I am sorry that Coinneach is so ill.” She shook her head, aware that the warrior’s eyes had widened slightly. “You might have understood each other well.”

“Indeed, I believe we might have,” Stewart said with resolve. Rowena smiled to hear his impulse to see her husband, to try to save that man from her Fae spell. “I, too, am sorry your husband is ill.”

In a way, it was disappointing for mortal men to be so predictable.

“I have the most wondrous idea!” Rowena snapped her fingers. “Perhaps it would aid him to meet a man of his own ilk. Perhaps you might assist in his recovery.”

“I would willingly do whatever might help him.”

“Would you visit him this night, Stewart? It is so dull for him to lie abed while others make merry. Conversation with another warrior might give him new strength.”

“I should be honored, my lady.”

“I do warn you that he is quite ill. There is a potion he favors, which he orders from the old woman in the village. I do not approve of it, but he insists upon drinking it. He will probably demand that you fetch it for him.” Rowena shook her head. “I would ask you not to comply.”

“I understand, my lady.”

“Come, then, and I will show you to his chamber. Thank you so much, Stewart.” Rowena cooed beside him, as if she were a feeble woman and one easily overwhelmed. “You cannot know what this means to me. I should so love to see him well again.”

Rowena smiled to herself as Stewart’s lips tightened in resolve. Coinneach would ask for the cup, because the potion she brewed for him created a craving for more. Stewart would comply with Coinneach’s request, thinking he defied the Fae mistress of the abode and would be aiding his fellow man.

And the final dose of poison would be administered to Coinneach, with nary an effort on her part. There would be no shadow over Andrew’s inheritance of Killairig. Rowena would be avenged upon her sister, fulfill her pledge to her mother, and create a future for her son.

The only fact that marred her triumph was the loss of Aurelia. Andrew’s tidings had nearly made Rowena despair, but her grief had already hardened into a determination to be avenged. Once Andrew was Laird of Killairig, Rowena would seek out the man who had stolen her pride and joy.

Garrett MacLachlan would wish he had never been born by the time she was done.

Two days after their departure from the hut, the land fell away at one side of the road, and Annelise forgot how sore she was from so much time in the saddle. The vista spread before her stole her breath with its beauty. She could see the ocean clearly from this vantage point for the first time, the water sparkling like silver. The wind lifted her hair and birds flew overhead. Beneath them, she could see a stone keep, perched on the very point of a forested finger of land. It would have a commanding view of the sea and the islands scattered beyond. The forest was deeply green and lush, and a pennant snapped in the wind from the summit of the tower.

“Killairig,” Garrett said quietly.

“It reminds me of Ravensmuir,” Annelise said. “But the birds are eagles instead of ravens, and this sea has islands. Still the keep has an imposing site, just as Ravensmuir does.” She looked around. “And there are so few flowers.”

Their gazes locked for a moment, then Garrett urged Yseult onward.

The land dropped steeply from that point and Annelise could see that the road switched back and forth for the descent. She looked out to sea, noting the dark clouds that were mustering on the horizon. They seemed to be blowing closer at a fierce pace and she heard the distant rumble of thunder. “It seems we shall find shelter just in time.”