Yuletide Enchantment (3 page)

Whatever Alistair had said about people going into the woods, never to be seen again, she didn’t care. She needed to find her stag and make sure he had survived the hit from Ewan’s arrow. The hart had consumed her thoughts. The memory of his eyes haunted her. There was an almost human quality to them, and that look he had given her before running off? She didn’t understand it, but it compelled her to find him, to make certain he was still alive.

She didn’t think she had been gone long from the house, but when she looked up and saw the darkening skies over the barren treetops, she knew she had tarried too long in the forest. But her senses, the same ones that told her to flee, were certain that the white hart was close by.

Carefully she stepped between the exposed roots of the giant oaks, holding on to their trunks for support. The caw of a bird startled her, and she looked up to see an enormous raven lift off the branch of a tall Scotch pine. It circled above her, dipping low, flying between the trees, then circling back. Despite the waning light and the dim moonbeams which could not penetrate through the thick canopy of pines, Isobel saw, or rather felt, the bird’s predatory gaze boring into her.

Stumbling over the roots and the thick underbrush of hawthorn, Isobel walked deeper into the woods, conscious of a sense of foreboding that worked its way down her spine.

The raven, she saw, continued to follow her, but he no longer circled her like a hawk circling a mouse. Now he flew from branch to branch, following her progression into the forest, his head cocking with what could only be described as curiosity.

Curiosity had killed the cat. She hoped tonight she was not the feline in question.

Rounding a group of rowan trees, Isobel stopped abruptly. In a shaft of moonlight, beneath the leafless canopy of an old oak, lay her hart. He was asleep on the ground, hind legs buried beneath his great, muscular hide. His forelegs curled like that of a dog. His head, with the enormous rack, was pillowed on the snow that glistened with crimson drops of blood.

Its eyes flew open, and for seconds, the animal didn’t move. Its hide did not even flicker in agitation. There was nothing to show her that the animal was startled. No evidence that he would run from her.

Creeping forward, she extended a hand, whispering softly, “I won’t hurt you.”

He watched her, his large black eyes following her every move until she was a few steps from him. Then he lunged to his feet. His head dipped low, and she reached out to touch him, running her fingers down the slope of his muzzle. The stag allowed the touch, and she saw his eyes close as if he savored the feel of her fingers on him.

He was incredibly soft, his pelt like silk, the color unlike anything she had seen before. In the daylight he had been white, but in the moonlight he glowed almost silver, an incandescent color that was beautiful and otherworldly. It was as if his pelt absorbed the moonbeams and turned them into glistening crystals.

She studied the rack that Ewan had wanted as a trophy. It was wide and heavy. Awe-i nspiring. Capable of impaling her and shredding her to bits. She trembled at the thought of feeling the thrust of his antlers through her chest, and she shrieked when she felt the warm wetness on her hand. When she looked down, she half expected to see her own blood on her palm, but there was nothing there save the stag’s mouth gently nuzzling her hand. Then the flat of his head was in her palm, and he was brushing against her like a kitten. His eyes were closed, nostrils flared, taking in her scent as he pressed closer to her, encouraging her to touch him.

“You are the most beautiful beast I have ever seen,” she whispered as she stroked one of the curling antlers. His hide flickered, shivering, and he lowered his head farther, encouraging another touch. “Such strength and power,” she murmured, “yet grace and gentleness, too.”

His head lifted, and he looked down at her. Standing beside her, his chest broad and lean, he dwarfed her with his size. He was any hunter’s prize kill, yet the thought of this magnificent animal slaughtered and stuffed made her feel ill. This regal stag was made to run free.

“He did hurt you,” she whispered as she saw the angry red mark on the animal’s side. She brushed her fingers over the wound, which looked superficial. While no doubt painful, it would not prove deadly. The stag sidestepped her touch, prancing just far enough away to evade her fingers, yet he kept close to her, circling her. She felt him at her side, her back. The ends of her hair tangled in his antlers, and she thought she heard him inhale deeply of the heather-scented soap she had used that morning.

You are mine
, she heard whispered on the winter wind that made its low howl through the leafless branches.

Suddenly she felt warm, her legs weak, her belly fluttering with the sudden release of butterflies. It was a man’s voice. Dark. Sensual. Compelling.

Stay with me
.

She trembled once more as the stag pressed closer, his muzzle now bent to her neck. Puffs of gray vapor rose between them and she closed her eyes, disconcerted by feelings that swam in her.

Stay forever
.

Something touched her, a hand on her shoulder, the press of lips against the bounding pulse of her throat. She felt the harsh exhalation of a held breath, followed by the movement of her hair over her shoulder.

The raven cawed loudly and swooped down between them, drawing the stag’s attention. Confused and frightened, Isobel bolted and ran over the uneven ground, falling to her knees over large, distended tree roots. Branches tore at her hair and the tartan scarf she had wrapped around her neck. Pulling the wool, she continued running, never once looking back until she broke free of the branches that seemed to have tried to keep her within the forest.

When she at last turned back, she saw the white stag standing on the edge of the forest watching her, his great chest heaving. His black eyes compelling her back to him.

She walked away, unable to stop looking back over her shoulder. The stag was still there, still watching her.

Next time
, she heard through the night sky.
Next time you will not run from me.

“The female is fearless, I’ll give her that. Braver than most males of her kind.”

Daegan watched as the raven fell from the tree limb, landing before him as a man—a naked one.

“If Cailleach catches you in that state, you’ll be banned.”

Bran smiled, a twinkle in his distinctive mismatched eyes—one pewter, one gold. “The goddess is a prude,” he said, even as he used his magic to clothe his naked body. “I don’t know how you stand her, Uncle.”

“You are a warrior, not a ruler. I do not expect you to understand my allegiance to our goddess.”

“Then it is fortunate that you were the eldest and not my father, for I would not want to inherit the throne. I much prefer killing our enemies to negotiating with them.”

“You never did understand duty,” Daegan said, watching the fading shadow of Isobel vanishing into the twilight.

“Duty is what brings me here.”

Daegan glanced at Bran. “What duty is this you speak of?”

“Carden is missing.”

“I have heard.” Three weeks and still the raven had not found him. To Daegan’s eyes, Bran was steaming with anger and fear. A weakness, that. It was not like Bran to show vulnerability.

“You know I must find him.”

Daegan nodded. “I will help if I can.”

“I believe Morgan has cursed him.”

Daegan glanced sharply at Bran. “A dangerous claim against a powerful goddess. What proof have you?”

“None but my instincts. Carden is innocent. He had no part in my squabble with Morgan, but she has punished him to punish me.”

“You ask much if you’re asking me to go up against Morgan. I have no allegiance to your half brother, Raven. He is not of my blood.”

“I know. But as a Sidhe, you have a duty to me, and I to you.”

“There is nothing to be done now if Morgan has cast her spell.”

“ ’Tis not only Carden that brings me to you, but something else.”

“Oh?” he asked, intrigued. Bran thought of nothing but his search for his half brother. To say the hunt for Carden had become an obsession was putting it mildly. “You have not seen to any duty these past weeks other than searching for the Gargoyle. What brings you out of the hunt now?”

Bran glared at him. “I think you know.”

“I do not,” Daegan replied.

“What do you mean by pursuing that mortal?”

Daegan shrugged his shoulders. His hair, the same inky black as Bran’s, whipped about his face as the wind rose up and howled between the naked branches. “Why should you care what I do?”

“Because I am next in line of succession, and I do not like what I see.”

“Then you wish me to leave Annwyn for you to rule more wisely, my nephew?”

Bran growled. “I have no patience for ruling, or desire for the throne, you know that. I care about finding Carden, nothing else, and your actions are interfering. You are upsetting the order of our entire world. Now tell me, what makes you pursue this woman and not a female of Annwyn?”

“What drives you to search fruitlessly for your brother?”

Bran scowled fiercely. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“What is different? We follow where our souls would lead us. I want the woman. I have for many years. I believe she is my destiny. Is it so wrong to want a human?”

“At the cost of our home, our world? Yes.”

“You have never loved. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“And I would never be so stupid as to give my heart to a human. They’re treacherous, conniving creatures. She would betray you and slit your throat without a second thought. She will expose us to her kind.”

“She won’t.”

Bran snorted. “You’re blinded by mortal beauty. The feeling will pass. Let it go.”

“She ran from me,” Daegan murmured, acknowledging the pain he felt in his heart.

“You frightened her. She saw you as a beast.”

“In my mind, I was a man.”

Bran gazed at him, his eerie, mismatched eyes penetrating through the darkness. “You would betray us all, Uncle.”

Shaking his head, Daegan refused the truth behind Bran’s words. “Follow her as the raven and make sure she arrives safely.”

“Why? When it would be to all of Annwyn’s benefit if she did not?”

With a roar, he reached for Bran’s throat and shoved him against a solid oak. “If you do not see to the task, I will, and I might never return. You know what that would mean.”

Bran’s eyes flared wide. “That is what the humans call blackmail.”

“I wish only to have her safe.”

Bran flashed into his raven’s form, but the glare from his eyes told Daegan he was less than pleased to do his bidding.

“And what am I to expect in return for seeing the mortal safe?” Bran asked.

Daegan met his gaze. “I will convince Cailleach to banish Morgan. Morgan will not like the Wastelands. She’ll break the spell rather than be banished.” Daegan looked up at the raven circling him. “Is it a deal, then? My woman for your brother?”

“This bargain will no doubt come back to haunt us both, but I have no choice but to accept. No one has more sway with Cailleach than you, and no one other than the supreme goddess can talk sense into that witch Morgan.”

“We have a deal, then?”

“We have.”

As Bran flew off, leaving Annwyn, Daegan raised his hand, palm up, to the moonlight. A silver pin in the shape of a dirk glistened on the forest floor in front of him. The MacDonald clan pin. Isobel would be back for it. And he would be waiting.

Isobel sang the opening strains of the “Coventry Carol,” and Fiona joined in as they wound strands of ivy and cedar, mixed with pine boughs, to decorate the mantel of the fireplace.mixed

“Are you sure you should be reaching like this?” Isobel asked, breaking off the carol as she saw Fiona stand on tiptoe to stuff a bunch of holly into the bough.

“I’m with child, not an invalid.”

“Still, Stuart would have my hide if anything happened to you, especially since it was my idea to decorate the parlor for tonight’s reading.”

“As the eldest brother, Stuart is used to getting what he wants. You and your family might indulge him, but I do not.”

And that’s why Isobel utterly adored her sister-i n-l aw.

Fiona winked at her and passed her a ball of mistletoe. “Put this somewhere special.”

“And where would that be?”

“Where the man of your dreams can find it.”

Isobel glowered. “How about the rubbish bin, then? I’m sure St. Clair would never dare look in the rubbish.”

“You heard.” Fiona scrunched up her nose. “How long have you known?”

“Ewan blurted out the news yesterday afternoon when we were gathering the pine and holly. I don’t think he meant to let the cat out of the bag, but he did, and I’ve been stewing about it half the night.” The other part of the night she’d spent having strange dreams of a violet-eyed, dark-haired stranger. She didn’t know what concerned her more, her marriage to the mysterious Earl of St. Clair or the feelings her dream man had stirred within her.