Warrior of the Isles (10 page)

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Authors: Debbie Mazzuca

BOOK: Warrior of the Isles
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Lachlan appeared ready to strangle her handmaiden if he could but break free from the ropes that held him in place.
Syrena blew out an exasperated breath. The two of them sorely tried her temper. “Please, Evangeline, for me.”
A mutinous expression hardened Evangeline's fine-boned features. She crossed her arms over her chest and snarled, “No.”
Syrena stamped her foot in frustration. “You have to obey me, I'm your princess.”
“You are, and it is my duty to protect you from the likes of him.” She jerked her head in Lachlan's direction. “Princess, it is urgent you return home. I promise, I'll release the . . . him, when we're at the stones.”
“The council isn't set to meet again for a fortnight. How urgent can the matter be?”
Evangeline grimaced. “Queen Morgana has sent a missive to Uscias demanding the Sword of Nuada.”
Syrena stiffened. “She can't do that, there is no precedent for such an act.”
“No, but she is arguing that because of the agreement between the two of you, the point is moot.”
“The sword is mine. Besides, the council would never agree to such a request.”
Evangeline lowered her eyes from hers.
“Tell me the council didn't give her their consent?”
“I'm sorry, your highness, they did,” Evangeline said quietly.
Syrena tamped down a growing sense of unease. “It doesn't matter, even if the council has given their support to her, the vote would never pass. She would have to prove I'm incompetent. She can't win.”
“I'm sorry, I don't wish to wound you, princess, but she has already begun a campaign against you. She is reminding everyone of your inexperience, but more damaging than that she's reminding them of your test scores.”
Syrena buried her face in her hands. What had possessed Morgana to put their agreement at risk? She knew her stepmother had been unhappy when Syrena voiced her concern over the actions Morgana had taken against the Fae men, but surely that couldn't be the reason. But whether Morgana wanted to admit it or not, Syrena had the upper hand. The Sword of Nuada was hers.
Dropping her hands to her sides, she looked at Evangeline. “Uscias will not hand over the sword, I'm certain of it. He knows of my . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip, unable to continue in Lachlan's presence, certain he would do anything to have her gone from his life, from his brother's life.
Her stomach knotted at the thought of Aidan, and the memory of his tenderness, of how he made her feel. She glanced up to see Lachlan watching her. She couldn't leave, not yet. Winning her brother's love was as important to her as completing her quest, maybe more so. And considering Morgana's actions, having Lachlan rule beside her just might be what was required to circumvent her stepmother.
She would return to the Enchanted Isles in triumph, her quest complete. Uscias would give her Nuie, and then all would see she was the one to lead them. “What of Lord Bana and Lord Erwn, surely they would not cast their lot with Morgana?”
“It is said she seeks to disallow the men's votes.”
“On what grounds?”
“I don't know. She and Nessa pour over the Books of Fae for hours on end searching for some old ruling that will justify the edict.”
Syrena felt somewhat more hopeful, since no one knew the Books of Fae better than she did. “There is no such ruling. You must seek out Uscias. He knows why I'm here and will advise you. If he thinks I should return, then I shall, but until then I will remain here.”
“I cannot change your mind?”
“No.” She gave Evangeline's arm a reassuring squeeze, grateful for her friend's loyalty and protection.
“All right.” Muttering something beneath her breath, Evangeline waved her hand and Lachlan crashed to the mud-packed floor. Still bound by the ropes, he lay on his back, groaning.
“Oh, Evangeline, you could have at least let him down gently,” she protested, hurrying to her brother's side.
“Yes. I could have.” Evangeline moved to stand over Lachlan and snarled, “You hurt her again and you'll answer to me. Do you hear me?” She prodded him with the toe of her embroidered black slipper. “Nod if you do, you big oaf.”
“Evangeline!” Syrena cried out, but her handmaiden ignored her.
Lachlan growled beneath the dirty rag, his eyes flashing. Evangeline nudged him again, and he nodded.
Turning to Syrena, Evangeline took her hand in hers. “He's a fool if he rejects your love, princess, as are the Fae if they listen to Morgana.”
She blinked back tears and embraced Evangeline. “No one has ever had a friend as loyal as you. Thank you.”
A rosy hue tinted her handmaiden's porcelain complexion, and she dipped her head. “You deserve no less. Take care, my lady.” With one last glare in Lachlan's direction, Evangeline left the stables.
Syrena dropped to her knees at her brother's side. “I'm sorry, Lachlan. At times she can be a little overprotective is all,” she apologized while removing the gag from his mouth, praying he didn't yell once she did.
“Just get these bloody ropes off of me,” he rasped.
“Yes, of course.” She dug her fingers into the knots and tried to loosen them, but they were too tight. The thick twine scraped and burned her tender skin. Unwilling to give up, she moved to his feet and tried to pull the rope over his boots.
He blew out an impatient breath. “Can ye no' do magick like her?”
She grimaced. “No, I wish I could. If I tried, I'm just as likely to tighten the knots as loosen them.”
His amber eyes widened in alarm. “Nay, doona do it then. Ye'll squeeze the life out of me if ye do.”
She once more bent over her task. Moisture beaded on her forehead as she struggled with the bindings. Crouching to gain momentum, she rocked back on her heels, tugging as she did, and landed with a thud on her bottom. She heard a low rumble and looked up to see Lachlan laughing at her. The chiseled lines of his handsome face softened.
“At this rate, I'll be two and twenty before ye have me free.” He jerked his chin. “There's a dagger in my boot, Syrena. See if you can reach it.”
A warmth filled her chest and her heart swelled with hope. Syrena couldn't have wiped the smile from her face even if she wanted to. She leaned over, digging inside the soft leather of his calf-length brown boot. Finding the dagger, she carefully withdrew it.
“Have a care. 'Tis sharp,” he warned, craning his neck to watch her work it beneath the rope.
Gripping the shaft with two hands, she sawed through the thick twine. “I did it,” she cried triumphantly when the rope fell apart. Setting the knife aside, she unwound the coils that ensnared her brother. He raised himself up in order to help her.
Free of the rope, Lachlan shook out his limbs then rubbed his long legs. “That woman is a menace. Mad as old Tom on a bender, she is.”
Syrena handed him his knife then sat quietly at his side, her knees pulled to her chest. “I'm sorry for what she did to you, Lachlan. As I said before, she's very protective of me.”
He cast her a sidelong glance as he slid his dagger into his boot. “Aye, 'tis obvious.” He dragged his hand over his face. “To be fair, I shouldna tussled with her like I did.”
Her eyes widened. “You fought with Evangeline?”
“Nay, well, aye, but 'twas dark in here and I mistook her for a lass I was plannin' to meet up with before the gatherin'. I kissed her.” He flushed under Syrena's scrutiny. “Before I had a chance to apologize, she had me strung up from the rafters.”
“You're lucky that's all she did to you,” she commented dryly, remembering one of the royal guards who ended up chained in iron and hanging from a mountain peak after attempting to kiss Evangeline.
“And ye canna do that? Do magick like she does?”
“No, not like Evangeline. Her magick is very powerful. In truth, I don't know of many with her abilities. She's tried to teach me, but I seem to be unteachable.”
“She called ye princess. Are ye?”
“Yes, our . . . I mean, my father was king,” she corrected herself so as not to anger him.
“Was?” His voice had gone very quiet.
“Yes, he's dead. He was murdered.”
“How? I didna think faeries could die.”
“Not easily, but we can. Weapons such as my sword and the juice from Rowan berries will kill us, and then there are some who simply grow weary and choose to fade.”
“Fade?”
“They ask for their life to end, say the incantation, and then that's it, poof, they're gone. Nothing remains but faery dust. As for my father, someone poisoned him with Rowan berry juice.”
His brow furrowed, and then he asked, “Do ye ken who?”
“No.” She shook her head. Her father said it was her brother who would one day avenge his death. She didn't think that possible given how Lachlan felt about the Fae. But she had enough to worry about without adding that to her list.
“Who is this Morgana, the one who wants the sword?”
“My stepmother. She wants to rule the Isles, but when my father gifted me with the Sword of Nuada, it became my right.” She didn't tell him she was supposed to hand over Nuie and cede the throne to him. She didn't want to ruin their time together.
“Is there none in yer clan to protect ye?”
“Evangeline, and Uscias would help me if I asked. As for the others, I never lived up to the Fae's expectations. I can't do magick like they do, and I'm not very brave, and as you can see, I'm little.”
“Aye.” Lachlan grinned. “Ye are wee. But yer father, he would've protected ye, demanded his clan be loyal to ye.”
“No, I was a disappointment to my father, and he made certain all were well aware of the fact.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued and Syrena was afraid she'd said too much. Outside the barn, people shouted out their greetings to one another. Lachlan came slowly to his feet and offered her his hand. “Come, I hear the others arrivin' to celebrate.”
“You . . . you want me to celebrate with you?” She held her breath, afraid to hold out hope. Afraid she'd misunderstood him.
“Aye, I do. I'm sorry fer earlier. I ken I hurt ye. I—”
“It's all right. I made you a promise and I broke it.”
He tightened his hold on her hand and searched her face. “Ye didna tell Aidan who ye are, did ye?”
“No, I—”
“Syrena, I ken there is somethin' between ye and my brother and I will keep yer secret, but trust me when I tell ye he must never learn ye're Fae.”
“There is nothing between us,” she protested half-heartedly.
He arched a brow. “I'm no' daft, Syrena. I've seen the two of ye together. But I fear 'twill end badly, and one or both of ye will be hurt.”
Chapter 8
Flames from the open pits licked the chill from the crisp, spring air. The roasted deer and pig had been removed from the spits to be carved for the guests who stood quaffing ale by the warmth of the fires. Aidan rolled his eyes when Gavin, well in his cups, tossed some of the brew into the flames. At least he had the sense to jump back when the blaze hissed, spitting its bright orange sparks into the clear night sky.
“I see Gavin hasna changed since last we met,” his cousin observed dryly.
“Nay, and I doubt he ever will.” Aidan turned to clap Iain on the back. “'Tis good to see ye, cousin. I didna ken ye meant to visit.”
Iain shrugged. “I wanted to see how you fared in yer battle with the Lowlanders, and truth be told, I had need of an excuse to leave Dunvegan and the Isle of Skye fer a spell.”
He grinned at his cousin's disgruntled expression. “The bairns drivin' ye mad, are they?”
“Nay, 'tis my brother and Aileanna seein' to that. Nauseatin' is what the two of them are. Never did I think to see my brother laid low by a woman. Has him by the ballocks, she does.” He shook his head in disgust. “They canna keep their hands off one another, and I tell you, they doona care who's about to see them.”
Aidan laughed. “Ye're jealous.” He nudged his cousin with his elbow. “But think, mon, ye wouldna want to be tied to one lass, now would ye?”
Iain cast an appreciative eye over a handful of lasses giggling to the right of them, his gaze coming to rest on the beauteous Widow Blackmore with her flaming red hair. A woman who had castigated Aidan earlier for his failure to visit her, but of late, her bountiful charms had little effect on him, and he was afraid he knew the reason why.
With his thoughts turned to Syrena, he searched the crowd. He didn't know where she'd disappeared to earlier, but he decided if she didn't make an appearance soon, he would go in search of her. Aidan drew his attention back to his cousin, trying not to allow his concern to get the best of him.
Iain shrugged. “I doona ken. If I found someone like Aileanna, I might consider it. But what about you? Ye're older than me, 'tis about time you settled down and had yerself a bairn or two. Now that yer feud with the Lowlanders is dyin' down, you have no excuse.”
“Nay, I have enough . . .” Speech abandoned him at the sight of Lachlan, with Syrena on his arm, entering the grounds. Illuminated in the fiery glow from the flames, she laughed up at his brother. Her long unbound hair dazzled the eye as did the lavender velvet gown that clung to her lush curves. A gown, if memory served him, that had once belonged to his mother.
The clamor of voices faded to hushed whispers as those gathered observed the golden couple in their midst. Obviously uncomfortable with the attention, Syrena hung back. Lan whispered something in her ear then nudged her in Aidan and Iain's direction.
Aidan's fingers tightened on the silver goblet in his hand, reminding himself his brother had simply showed the lass a kindness. And wasn't that what he had wanted all along? Just as he assured himself the knot of tension tightening his belly had naught to do with the soft smile she bestowed upon his brother, but was in response to the salacious gleam in every man's eye that looked upon her.
His cousin followed his gaze and sighed. “Leave it to Lan to find the woman of my dreams before I did. The lad has the luck of the Irish when it comes to the lasses.”
“He didna find her, I did,” Aidan grated out. Tipping his head back, he took a deep swallow of ale.
Iain clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh. “Ah, so that's the way of it, is it? 'Twill be like the old days, only I'll be the one comin' between the two of you instead of you comin' between Rory and me.”
With Syrena and his brother almost upon them, Aidan chose not to respond. What would he say if he did? Blurt out the whole sordid tale of his mother and Davina? Tell his cousin that though he wanted Syrena more than any woman he'd ever known, he couldn't have her? He wouldn't leave himself open to the certainty of betrayal. Now if only he could make his heart and his body listen.
Lachlan, acknowledging the crowd's good wishes, had yet to note his cousin's presence. When he did, he moved away from Syrena to grab hold of Iain. “'Tis good to see ye, cousin. It's been too long.”
“Aye, it has. You've grown again. You'll soon be towerin' over the lot of us.”
Lan grinned, looking more like the lighthearted lad Aidan remembered. It had taken years after their father's death for the withdrawn, frightened child to become the fun-loving, adventurous lad of recent memory. Giving their cousin a playful shove, Lan said, “Stronger, too.”
Iain grimaced. Rubbing his shoulder, his gaze came to rest on Syrena, who stood quietly behind Lachlan. “Are you no' goin' to introduce me to yer bonny friend?”
Sensing her unease, Aidan drew her toward him and laid a proprietary hand at the small of her back. His fingers warmed from the heat beneath the soft fabric. With a concerted effort, he fought the urge to let his hand drift to the delectable curve of her behind. “Lady Syrena, I'd like ye to meet our cousin, Sir Iain MacLeod of Dunvegan on the Isle of Skye.”
Iain gave her a courtly bow and pressed a kiss to her hand. “'Tis an honor to meet you, my lady. And please, call me Iain.”
Syrena's brow furrowed, then after a slight hesitation, she made the poorest excuse for a curtsy Aidan had ever witnessed. “I'm pleased to meet you, Iain.”
Aidan frowned. A lass of her station must have been to court a time or two. Unless, he reasoned, the knock on her wee head had stolen more than the memory of her kin. As though sensing his surprise, she lifted her shoulder, offering him a wry smile.
Noting the serving girls weave their way among the crowd with platters of roasted meats held high above their heads, Aidan said, “It appears the meal is about to be served. Syrena.” He offered her his arm. She glanced up, and her fingers tightened on his sleeve. He covered her hand. With a reassuring squeeze, he led her to the table and placed her in the chair at his right. Iain took the seat to his left while Lan commandeered the one beside Syrena.
Aidan remained standing and raised his goblet. “Thank ye all fer comin'. I ask ye to join me in a toast to my brother, Lachlan, who turns nineteen this day, and to our latest battle with the Lowlanders. May it be our last.” He waited for the cheers to die down before continuing, “And I'd like ye all to welcome my cousin, Sir Iain MacLeod of Dunvegan, who has battled alongside us a time or two, and the beautiful Lady Syrena.” He lifted his goblet once more, smiling down at Syrena, whose cheeks pinked.
“Are you no' goin' to smile at me like that?” Iain chuckled, laughing harder at the look Aidan shot him.
“Aye, aye, to Lady Syrena, fairest of them all,” Gavin cried. Standing on the bench, he swayed precariously. Donald had the foresight to grab him by the back of his plaid and tug him down. Gavin glared at his friend and staggered back to his feet, raising his mug in Syrena's direction. “And doona ye worry, my lady. 'Tis no' yer wee pet we're eatin' this night.”
Syrena's mouth dropped open.
The serving girl placed a platter piled high with venison in front of Aidan, and Syrena blanched. He grabbed the pitcher of mead and poured some in a goblet. “Here.” He held the rim to her lips. “Drink,” he ordered.
Lan caught his eye then motioned for the girl to come back for the platter. He spoke quietly to the lass, who frowned at Syrena, then shrugged.
“Did I miss somethin'?” Iain inquired, brow quirked.
“Nay, but I hope ye didna have a cravin' fer venison this night, cousin, as all we'll be eatin' at this table is pork.”
Syrena muttered something about murderous beasts under her breath then downed her mead. She placed the empty goblet on the table and nudged it toward him.
Aidan tilted his head, narrowing his gaze on her. “Syrena, ye best eat somethin' if ye're goin' to be consumin' mead in that fashion.”
“I'm . . . I'm not going to eat
that
.”
“Here then, have some of this, Syrena.” His brother placed a hunk of bread in her trencher.
“Thank you,” she said, rewarding Lachlan with a smile before turning a contemptuous look upon Aidan, making it obvious she held him accountable for all the dead animals gracing their table this night.
“The lass looks none too happy with you, Aidan,” his cousin observed.
“Aye, and she's made her displeasure rather well known,” he said loud enough for her to hear. If he expected her to apologize for her behavior, he was mistaken. She kept as much distance between them as she could, giving all her attention to his brother.
Iain managed to provide ample distraction from her censure, regaling him with news from court. With word of Queen Elizabeth I's death, it appeared King James VI would soon rule from the English throne as James I of England. Aidan wondered how that would affect the MacLeods of both Lewis and Skye. His musings were brought to an abrupt halt when he heard Syrena's quiet cry of delight.
Her countenance lightened now that the main course had been cleared and the pastries served. She fairly hummed when Lachlan placed a slice of fruit pie and some honey cakes in front of her.
Her soft sounds of pleasure brought an image of her in his bed, writhing beneath him as he plundered her honeyed lips. He barely stifled a groan when she brought her fingers to her mouth and delicately licked the sugar coating from each one.
His restraint in tatters, he shot to his feet. “Music,” he barked at the men tuning their instruments.
Iain caught his eye, his shoulders shaking with unrestrained mirth. “I doona ken if I should tell you this, cousin, but you have the same look my brother gets when he doesna' ken whether to strangle Aileanna, or kiss her senseless.” He laughed all the harder at Aidan's muttered denial.
Syrena looked down at the fingers she'd licked clean. She didn't think she'd done anything wrong. Everyone else had eaten the little cakes in the same manner—she'd made certain before she did. The dainty delicacies had tasted so wonderful she couldn't resist getting the last of the crystallized drops. The honeyed cakes were so delicious she'd almost been willing to forgive Aidan for butchering the helpless creatures that had graced the table earlier. Not that he was the only one to eat heartedly of their meat. Her brother had done so as well.
She cast a sidelong glance at Aidan, who was obviously annoyed by something his cousin had said. Jumping to his feet, he jolted the table, and wine spilled from her goblet onto the pristine white linens. She tried unsuccessfully to sop up the bright red puddle with a piece of linen.
“Leave it be, Syrena,” he said brusquely.
She stilled, startled by the smoldering gleam in his smoky gray eyes.
“Did you enjoy the pastries, my lady?” his cousin inquired with a smile, interrupting their silent exchange.
She dragged her gaze from Aidan, trying to ignore the heated tingle pulsating through her limbs to settle beween her thighs. She leaned forward in an attempt to see past his brawny physique.
“Oh, yes,” she said, managing to keep her voice even though the position brought her closer to Aidan. So close his plaid brushed her arm, and the warmth, and his clean masculine scent, scattered her senses. She shifted in her chair, putting some distance between them. However small, it helped. “They were wonderful. Did you?”
Iain grinned, his amber eyes warm with amusement, and Syrena decided she liked this man with the laughing eyes and handsome face. “Verra much, although I think you liked them a wee bit more than I did. Wouldna you agree, cousin?”
She glanced at Aidan, his gaze fixated on her mouth. Certain crumbs remained, she swiped her tongue over her lips in an attempt to remove them.
With a groan, Aidan dropped to the chair at her side and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “Go dance with the lasses, Iain,” he muttered.
“You may no' have noticed, cousin, but it appears they mean to put on a wee show.”
Beneath the table, Syrena tapped her feet to the music, watching as the women took to the open area, the fires dancing at their backs. Swaying in time to the music, the varying hues of their gowns created a kaleidoscope of color.
Four of them focused their attention solely on the three men at Syrena's table. The women, one blonde, two with dark hair, and the other a vibrant redhead, sauntered toward them. They tossed their long, unbound hair, flirtatious smiles upon their lips. Syrena couldn't blame them—the MacLeod men were beautiful—although she didn't care for the auburn-haired beauty, who made no secret of the fact she performed for Aidan alone.
The woman's movements were practiced and seductive. Bending low at the waist, her long fiery locks did little to conceal the generous expanse of creamy white flesh she so boldly displayed.
Hands on her lap, Syrena's nails bit into her palms. From the corner of her eye, she snuck a peek at Aidan to gauge his reaction. She was tempted to hit him when she noted the lazy smile that played across his full, sensuous mouth.
Mortal or Fae, men are all alike
, she thought scornfully.

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