Yuletide Enchantment (5 page)

“Not trolls and unicorns, but faeries, aye. I believe in the Sidhe.”

“You’re superstitious.”

“Do you not believe in the stories of our ancestors?”

She had once. It seemed like such a long time ago when her mother and grandmother had spoken of the faeries and their enchanted forests. Of course, they meant to frighten her away from venturing into the woods. Only the stories hadn’t frightened her, but enticed her.

She’d been enticed into the woods yesterday, as well.

“Have you ever been in the woods, Miss MacDonald, and heard something strange? Have you ever felt as though there were eyes upon you, watching you from the cover of trees and moss? ”

Isobel shivered. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

He smiled. “I think you’re every bit as superstitious as me.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Aye. And it pleases me as well. We’ll have something to talk about once we are wed.” Isobel gritted her teeth at the smugness she heard.

“You presume much,” she said haughtily, letting her hand drop from his arm. She walked away from him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath. He reached for her arm and pulled her to a stop.

“You cannot feign ignorance, Miss MacDonald. I made my intentions quite clear to you this past summer, before you turned tail and ran off to London. Your father has agreed. I will have you for a wife.”

“Why?” she asked. “There are many women who would have you in a trice. Why pick me?”

“Your father and I—” The earl stopped and looked up at the swaying trees. “Did you hear that? Someone called my name.”

She hadn’t, but Isobel was eager for a reprieve, no matter how short. “Stuart, I think. I’ll wait while you see what he wants.”

St. Clair looked skeptical, but then his eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side as if he were listening. “Do not go any farther. I will return in a minute.”

Isobel scowled at the command and lifted the hem of her long cloak. She would do what she pleased. Besides, she had her clan pin to find. She had a feeling it would be where she had seen her stag. She remembered her scarf getting tangled in the branches and knew that was what happened to her pin. And she would get it, despite what St. Clair, the stuffed shirt, had to say about going deeper into the woods alone.

Rounding the clearing of trees and roots, Isobel stepped over a few of the branches that had fallen to the ground. She was certain this was the spot. Falling to her knees, she searched through the thin layer of snow, pine needles and dried leaves for the silver pin.

“ ’Tis a shame to ruin such a charming view, but I would hardly be a gentleman if I left you on that cold ground.”

With a squeak, Isobel jumped up and whirled around.

“Is this, by chance, what you’re looking for?”

A figure of a man came out from between the trunks of two trees. He was tall, his legs muscular and fit in his snug-fi tting buck-skins and black shining boots. Around his waist he wore a belt with an intricately carved sword that sported a jeweled hilt. On the belt was a leather pouch decorated with a Celtic triscale.

As he emerged from the darkness into the daylight, she saw he was wearing a long black cloak and a richly embroidered waistcoat. His throat was bare, despite the cold, and his skin was bronzed as if it were summer, not the first day of winter.

As he stepped slowly out of the shadows, Isobel felt herself moving back until her shoulders brushed against the oak. She watched with a mixture of fear and curiosity as the man’s face was revealed.

The sight robbed Isobel of breath. The shoulder-l ength black hair that blew freely around his broad shoulders, the aquiline nose and the high cheekbones, the mesmerizing violet eyes all came back to her in a blurry image. It was the man from her dream.

Holding his hand out to her, he uncurled his fingers and allowed her to see what he held in his palm. Their gazes collided and he took a step closer to her. “I have been waiting for you, Isobel MacDonald.”

She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Despite the fact that her glorious red hair was covered by the hood of her velvet mantle. Even with the shadows that concealed her pale skin and wide blue eyes, Daegan knew it as the truth. Isobel MacDon ald was stunningly beautiful.

He had seen that beauty last night, when he had come to her in a dream. He had tasted her sweetness as her lips parted beneath his. He had felt her passion as he pressed her back on the bed and touched her.

Even now, he could still feel the tentative touch of her fingertips against his cheeks, his shoulders. She was innocent, but beneath her purity, there was a passion that burned hot.

Her gloved hands came up to her hood and she shoved it back, revealing a cascade of auburn ringlets that fell artfully from her coiffure. Her eyes were just as wide and clear as last night, yet he saw something different in them—awareness. That she was aware of him, that the memories of them together were flooding her consciousness made his blood hot. The animal in him wanted to press her back against the tree and mate with her. The Sidhe in him wanted her thoroughly enchanted before he claimed her and made her his. A quick rut was not what his Sidhe half desired. Only a full night exploring her body would satisfy him.

“How did you come by my pin, sir?” she asked breathlessly.

He could tell she recalled the dream and what she had allowed him to do. It was there in her eyes, the way her body seemed to grow lax. The perfume of her arousal that seemed to cloak him.

It was fortunate he had found the clan pin, for with his magic he had used it to enter her dreams. Once she had the pin back in her possession, the spell would cause her to return to him night after night in the groves of Annwyn.

“Sir?” she asked warily. “How did you come by my pin, and how did you know it belonged to me?”

“Are you not Isobel MacDonald of MacDonald Hall?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“Then this is yours. I found it while wandering the woods on my morning walk.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she said, her gaze taking him in from head to toe. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He smiled as he stepped closer to her. “Is that true, Isobel?”

She sucked in a breath as he came to stand directly before her. “I . . . I do not recall being introduced, sir.”

“I am Daegan, prince of these woods. Perhaps now you recall our acquaintance?”

Her eyes flared and her breathing grew harsh. “I am quite sure you are not known to me.”

He reached out and she flinched. He soothed her with a whisper as he attached the pin to her cloak. “I know you well, Isobel. And I intend for you to know me just as intimately.”

Isobel could hardly breathe. How could he be here standing before her. The man from her dream.
Daegan
. She remembered his name, that he had claimed to be a prince. She had thought it a bit of fancy, a remnant from a young woman’s childish fantasies of being a princess swept off her feet by a handsome prince. She hadn’t truly believed that the man was real, nor could she have imagined him being even more handsome and virile in person.

“Ah, I think the lady doth remember,” he murmured as his knuckles raked along her cheek. “Is it all coming back now,
muirnín
?”

“I . . . I dreamed of you,” she said. Blushing, she immediately looked away, but he lifted her chin to have her look upon him.

“More than that. Last night, I came to you in your sleep.”

His thumb, warm and soft, caressed her chin, then slid upwards toward the corner of her mouth, eliciting a warmth that rushed through her veins. “And . . . and . . .” Isobel swallowed hard, unable to finish or concentrate on anything other than Daegan’s thumb stroking her.

“And we kissed. Touched.”

She licked her dry lips, remembering how, and
where
he had touched her. “Am I dreaming now? I must be, for how can any of this be possible?”

“No. You are not dreaming. ’Tis real, this meeting. ’Tis fate.” The sound of twigs and branches snapping beneath heavy footfalls shattered the tension that had grown between them. Daegan narrowed his eyes and growled at the disturbance.

“I cannot see you again,” she said, glancing at the open space where any second the earl might happen upon them.

“But you will, Isobel. You will. Tonight is the winter solstice, and when the moon is full, you will come to me, and I will tell you all you wish to know, and I will make you mine.”

“There you are,” the earl snapped as he shouldered his way through two pine trees. “I told you not to go haring off. Took me forever to find you.”

Daegan was gone, as if he had evaporated into thin air. Perhaps he was an apparition, something her mind had conjured up to save her from worrying about her upcoming marriage. But the lingering warmth of Daegan’s fingers on her chin, his knuckles on her cheek were real enough. How could she believe she had actually met this man in a dream? It was impossible.

“Well, shall we return? Mrs. MacDonald is tired and cold.”

Fiona. She had all but forgotten about her brother and his wife. She’d been lost in Daegan’s hypnotic violet gaze, and the sensual aura that seemed to hold her spellbound. She musn’t think about him anymore. Her fingers sought the pin, and she was relieved to find it secured against her cloak. As she felt its familiar outline, Isobel couldn’t help thinking of Daegan, wondering what
muirnín
meant.

Beloved.
The word seemed to be whispered through the forest.
Mo Muirnín. My Beloved.

She mustn’t believe. Must not get her hopes her up. This could not be real. Perhaps she was tired from her restless sleep the night before, perhaps knowing the earl was to be her husband had driven her mad, for how could a man enter another’s dream?

No, she must not believe she would ever see her stranger again.

Stuart placed the prized thick oak log onto the iron stand. “A fine piece of wood for the Yule log,” he announced as he lit a match. “May it burn bright and hot these next days, and may everyone’s dream come true. Ready?” he asked, casting his gaze about the parlor. “Has everyone their wish in mind?”

Isobel tried to be practical and wish for good health for herself and her loved ones, but a pair of violet eyes and a sinfully seductive mouth came to mind. She shoved the thoughts away, but Daegan’s image reappeared and refused to let go.

With a whoosh, the match lit the old dried log and it burst into flame, the orange flames flickering and crackling, the black smoke curling up the flue. To her despair, Isobel realized she had been wishing for just one more night with Daegan as her brother lit the traditional Yule log.

Just another silly superstition, Isobel told herself. Wishes upon the Yule log did not come true, any more than being kissed by a stranger beneath the mistletoe meant you were kissing your soul mate.

Silly, silly folktales that no longer had a place in these modern times.

“You’ve done such a lovely job decorating the parlor, Isobel,” her father said quietly as he sat beside her on the settee. “You’ve got your mother’s eye.”

Isobel scanned the greenery on the hearth and the flickering candles on the tree. The parlor did look spectacularly festive. Even the presence of the Earl of St. Clair seated in a chair beside her could not mar this moment.

“You will make St. Clair this festive next year,” the earl said in a confident, deep rumble.

Now
the moment was officially ruined.

“Will you not sing for us?” her father asked as he gazed into the flames that flickered and waved. “I would hear you sing the Wex ford Carol. It was your mama’s favorite.”

St. Clair sat back in his chair and watched her from the veil of his long, dark lashes. It unnerved her the way he watched her.

“Papa, I don’t think—”

“Come, lass. ’Tis not much to ask, is it?”

No, it wasn’t. Except that she didn’t want to get up and sing for the earl. But she knew she had no choice. Smoothing her hands down her crimson-colored gown, she sashayed to the tree, her satin train and bustle crinkling with her steps. Her hands trembled and she purposely stood partially turned away from the earl and focused her gaze on Fiona, who was smiling in encouragement.

Her voice wasn’t in perfect pitch at first, beginning in too high a key; then it steadied as her nerves calmed and she allowed herself to think not of the earl but of her mother.

The song ended, and everyone in the room clapped and begged for another. By the time she had finished the third carol, Isobel was parched.

“Ah, the maid is here with the tea things, or sherry if you prefer. It is, after all, the festive season, and there is nothing like a good sherry to warm the body and lift the spirits,” her father announced. “Then I thought I might read some Dickens. Or perhaps Stuart might wish to take over the task this year.”