A Faerie Fated Forever (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Real trouble loomed. Her racing steps halted as she heard the sound of horses pawing the sod. She bit her lower lip, clenched a handful of the excess fabric at the side of her dress and peeked through the shrubbery to see her father and his warriors mounted and girded. She knew her predicament would be sizable when Da gave the clan battle cry followed by the order to “Ride, men. Away, to retrieve my Heather and end the lives of the wretched fools who dared lay hands on a MacIver.”

She couldn’t delay longer and came at a run from her hiding place in the trees, waving her arms wildly. Her Da reined in his horse. Several of the men snickered and exchanged knowing smiles.

Carrick MacIver dismounted at a run, throwing off battle gear with each step.

“Lass, ye’re alive! Thanks be to God. Did you get away? Did you fool the villains and sneak off? Who took you?” He gave her no time to answer any of his queries before crushing her into a mighty hug. Then Bonnie came running from the house, ashen and still in tears.

“Baby! Where have you been? Were you taken, then? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” She trembled and the laird spread one arm around her while the other cradled his daughter.

“We shall return to the castle so our lass may name the villains. Now that she is safe, we can strategize and plan our attack.” He stopped to disperse the men and Heather slipped away from the comfort she hadn't earned. Da shrugged and kept an arm around her mother's waist as he called for her to follow them into the castle. Heather lagged several steps behind, still gnawing at her bottom lip.

Could she invent some villains? She darted a glance at her father’s still ruddy expression and decided against such a scheme. He would retaliate, and she couldn’t have innocent blood on her hands. All too soon, she was ensconced in the house, being pressed to name the dastardly and soon to be dead clan who dared to touch Carrick’s only child.

“I wasn’t taken,” she mumbled.

“What’s that? I couldn’t have heard you correctly,” her father demanded. “Speak plainly lass and name those who will die!”

By now, Bonnie had spotted the small satchel Heather tried to kick under the chair. She seared Heather with her “how dare you” glare as she bent to retrieve the evidence. She waved it at arm's length over her head before she tossed it in Carrick's lap.

“The lass wasn’t taken at all. She’s been out alone tending some crofter’s bairn, see if she hasn’t.” Bonnie’s temper behaved like a volcano - it rumbled before it erupted. She paced, she shouted to herself and the world generally; she threw her arms about – warning that misery would soon spew like lava.

Carrick stared at the black bag like it contained something more deadly than herbs and bandages before he stood and tossed it into Heather's lap.

For a minute, she nearly giggled, thinking that one of her younger cousins would believe they were playing catch. Heather stifled the impulse, which was a good thing, because her father said her name. Her whole name.

“Heather Ceana MacIver, explain yourself. NOW,” he said, in increasing volume, so that the last word was a roar. Heather knew she was about to get it. Really get it. Unless she could distract her father she'd not see the outside of her room for a month.

“The MacGregor’s five-year-old boy, little Bran came down with croup and a chest infection. You know him, Da. He’s the one whose hair you always ruffle and say he reminds you of Uncle Conall. The poor thing was dreadfully ill and I was up all night treating him with myrrh tea and linseed. Not until this morn did the wee munchkin cease his coughing fits and fall into a sound sleep.” Heather busied herself pouring her Da a cup of Scots Whiskey and handed it to him, as she said, “He might have died without me.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “For the love of the almighty, lass, what is one crofter bairn more or less? Anyway, the child wouldn’t have died, they would have fetched old Latharna and she’d likely have cured the lad in time to get some rest!”

Reminded of the village healer, Da’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth but closed it again when his squire came running in with a note. As Carrick read the message, Bonnie took a hard look at her daughter, rolled her eyes again, and walked to Heather’s side.

“What will it take for you to dress as befits your station? You look like a kitchen maid or a washerwoman. The dress would fit about four of you and,” she untied the girl’s bonnet, snatching it away as Heather danced after it. “I can’t even see your eyes under this hideous thing!”

What could she say in her own defense that her mother hadn't heard a thousand times before? She glanced in the mirror, quickly, for a split second, for she couldn't bear to face her reflection longer. The image proclaimed that her mother described her all too well. What did it matter that she wore a red Granny bonnet? The thing hid her loathsome hair didn't it? Yes, her dress would fit about four women her size, but what of it? It was one of the high-necked, long sleeved, garments that she favored for comfort – and to hide her sow-like breasts. Mother was right as usual. Heather knew she resembled a drab or a scald, and an unkempt one at that.

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you so many times that while you won’t ever be a traditional beauty, you could be lovely and exotic. You need only make a little effort," Bonnie said, her eyes snapping from tenderness to anger as she continued. "I know your late grandmother convinced you that your hair is odd. The old bat, err, I mean dear," she corrected at a sharp look from Carrick, "even said that your golden eyes were produced by a curse."

Bonnie warmed to her subject, grabbing Heather and shaking her shoulders. "Wake up dear! She was stone jealous every time she said you looked like a stick trying to support a boulder. Granny's chest was as flat as her intellect." She cast a look at her husband that dared him to disagree. He didn't. "The old girl preached her favorite homilies until I grew heartily sick of them. I can still see her little beady eyes following me while her crabby voice says
pretty is as pretty does
. My personal favorite was her zinger -
a man shallow enough to be attracted by the wrapping, will never appreciate the contents
. How did she think I attracted Carrick? With my even temper?"

Heather thought longingly of her dear departed Granny, who'd taught her everything she knew of herbs and of life. Heather modeled herself after Granny's mode of dress. Miraculously, the attire Granny had worn since her days in the American colonies helped to hide the long list of physical flaws Heather hadn't realized she was afflicted with until Granny MacIver pointed them out. She bit back the vicious insult she wanted to hurl at her empty headed mother. Only her Granny had loved her enough to tell her the truth and to accept her despite her flaws. Mother just criticized and crafted impossible dreams. Why did her mother show her stars she could never reach? She tried to tune her mother out, but her voice took on that high pitched whine that made Heather long to stuff her fingers in her ears.

“Baby, don’t you want to marry? Someday you will want children. You're marvelous with the little ones. I've told you time and again that it is always the wrapping that attracts men. They're like fish—forever chasing the pretty lure.” Heather crossed her arms and looked away.

She looked back fast enough when Bonnie craftily suggested, “Why, take Laird Maclee. A man like him will never bother to check out the contents if he isn’t interested in the wrapping.”

“You’re wrong about Nial. He’s not shallow! He’s different!” Heather retorted, loudly. Anything resembling an insult to the great Maclee roused the girl as nothing else could.

By now, Bonnie shouted too. “I’m not calling him shallow. I’m just calling him male.”

In much better spirits, Carrick bounded between the two women, puffing his cheeks in and out. Then he raised both brows, lowered his head, and aimed for Bonnie, who ran around the room, laughing.

Finally, he caught her, and as he bobbed up for her earring, she squealed, “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m a fish, love, and I’m chasing the pretty lure.” His ridiculous imitation had them all laughing. For the moment, issues of wandering off at night to tend sick tenants and even Heather’s attire were forgotten. He called for wine and when it arrived, he cleared his throat and raised his glass, “The invitation Nial promised has come. We have been invited to Kilcuillin for a house party to celebrate his birthday. It will be a good time for the young ones to get to know each other. I know my lass, and the Maclee is too smart a fellow to let such a lady get by him. He shall not know what hit him. To Heather and Nial,
Gle Mhath
(very good)!!”

Heather grinned and raised her glass to join in the toast. She had loved Nial for years and his protective embrace at the fair only increased her devotion. She believed Nial was as beautiful inside as he was outside and cited his generosity with his clan as proof. Everyone knew that his kindness to widows was prolonged – he provided meat for their table, wood for the winter and played substitute father for the children. (Heather didn’t know that the generosity to the women yielded other benefits for Nial with widows who weren’t virgins and were available).

The family toasted and Bonnie raised her glass. “Nial couldn’t find a finer lass in all of Scotland.” She took a drink and then another, before she added, "It's unfortunate that sometimes the pretty cake isn't the best tasting. But Laird Maclee has so many dishes to choose from that I fear 'twould take an exceptional dish indeed to make him forego such a feast."

Heather considered the statement and gave a long sigh, as she glanced out the window. She knew all too well that the loveliest lasses in the land dangled after the laird. She'd seen them pawing him on the dance floor. She'd seen it so often that she'd memorized the gesture he used to swat away their hands that had even earned its own nickname - the Maclee swipe.

Bonnie put a tender hand to her daughter's cheek and tried one more time. “Heather, why don’t we delay the trip for a bit and do some shopping first. Love, your exotic looks, properly showcased, along with your passion - and I know Nial won’t miss that - might get you that prize you’ve sighed over your life long. Accept my guidance and take a chance!”

“Leave the lass, alone. She has other assets that Maclee already appreciates,” Carrick said. "Don't forget the fair, love."

“You think the man will give up his faerie fated love and tie himself to our daughter while she looks like that?” Bonnie's voice sharpened as she continued. “A wallflower will not gain the eye, much less the vow, of Nial Maclee! For goodness sakes, he's fought the schemes of beauties trying to trap him beneath the parson’s noose for years. They say he is the spitting image of Ian whose masculine glory lured a faerie.”

Carrick walked to Heather and removed the bonnet she had retrieved, ignoring her attempts to snatch it back. “Stand,” he ordered in the daddy tone she couldn’t ignore. She stood, and he reached up and removed her hairpins and unwound the tight little bun atop her head. Then he ruffled her hair until it flowed about her wildly. He glanced around the room and finally seized the fabric tying back the curtains. He looped it around his daughter's waist.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Heather snapped. Being looked at was her worst nightmare. Now her beloved father arranged her like a freak at a carnival. Yes, Da saw beauty when he looked at her but he looked through eyes that loved her. Someday, Nial would too but he'd never see her like this or he'd likely run away screaming. How dare her father do this to her?

Carrick didn’t scold her for her temper. He wanted that flash of passion in her eyes. He stepped back, “Look, Bonnie! Just take a look at our lass. There is not another lady on the Isle of Skye, nay not in all of Scotland and England combined who can compare with her. The Maclee is renowned for his appreciation of the fairer sex. He’ll not miss this.”

Carrick strode around her, pointing out her virtues. "The lass looks glorious, even in the feed sack she's wearing right now. Her hair shows that God gifted her with every shade of brown in his rainbow. All rumpled like this it looks like she's been up to things a father doesn't want to consider. Her golden eyes snap with temper but it's a hot emotion and for comparison it'll do. And her shape, well, let's just say that Maclee is bound to remember with his head what he felt with his hands at the fair."

Carrick stepped back and winked at Heather who tried not to cry as the reminder of the fair spurred the dratted thought she refused to entertain. Whatever Nial had seen and felt at the fair, it hadn't been enough. Would it ever be enough? Could she ever be enough? Carrick raised his glass and Bonnie echoed his motion.

“To what do we toast?” Bonnie asked lightly.

“To our Heather, the Maclee’s faerie fated forever!” Carrick roared the toast and clinked his glass with his wife’s.

As they toasted without her, Heather ran upstairs, unable to fight her tears anymore. She closed the door and frantically began to wind her hair into a tight little bun. When it was as small as she could make it, she squished it under the large bonnet she kept hidden beneath her bed in the event of an emergency like one of Mother's sneak attacks. Once, her mother burned every bonnet Heather owned. She'd had to hide in her room for a week, sewing replacements. With her disguise firmly in place, she ripped the stupid fabric from her waist and threw herself on the bed.

Her parents were idiots to believe that she could be anything but what she was - plain and more than a little strange. Her brown hair mixed tones of every hue in that color's spectrum, from nearly blonde to almost red. Odd. Her hair was odd. Her best friend, Anice MacBain, had beautiful golden yellow hair – the color of daisies bathing in sunshine. Anice’s older sister, Elspeth, had hair the color of flames in the fireplace. Heather’s hair couldn't decide what color to be and tried to be a whole bunch of them at once. And eyes? Anice’s were baby blue and Elspeth’s were emerald green. Heather? Like her hair, her eyes were odd. Her
Athair
, her Da, called her eyes golden. “Pure gold lassie, just like you.” But then,
Athair
was a bit partial. Eyes should be blue or brown or green. Gold eyes were downright strange.