A Faerie Fated Forever (28 page)

“Calum,” Nial’s eyes lit up at his friend, “It’s good to have you back. I have been concerned over what had befallen you. I’ve not seen you since the night I made the single biggest mistake of my life.”

“Sorcha? Well, when you mate with a snake you might get bitten. I do not see her about. Yet I suppose it is not unexpected that she might mourn your wedding even as she counts the days awaiting your return to her bed.”

Nial gave a genuine snort of laughter, “Were she capable of counting still, she would tally days without number on that score. She will trouble us no more.”

He had heard the story of course, but would have enjoyed hearing it from Nial’s lips. He couldn’t press the man for that today of all days. He would hear him state his feelings for Heather, however. “Do you avoid my inquiry? How did the elders manage to press you into this marriage?"

The laird gave a real smile at that question. “On the contrary, my friend. ‘Tis I who have been pressing and pushing. This day has been far too long in coming for me. Heather is the one. She is my fated love and this day I join with her forever. I assure you, celebration will abound.”

Calum took the news calmly, and no hint of his inner emotion showed in his face as he said, “Good, good. Well, I suppose I shall see you after the vows.” He turned and walked into the kirk quickly, taking a seat on the back pew.

Nial resumed his pacing and his gazing at the path. He was still at it when Boz came outside to tell him it was time to join the father before the altar. The laird resisted his friend’s tugs and attempts to shepherd him inside. He had no claim to a sixth sense of any kind, but something urged him not to take his eyes off the path.

“She will be escorted by her father. Guards are everywhere. Surely she will be fine. The guests are growing restless as the organist and the bagpiper have been playing for some time. You must come inside.” His tug was again resisted, so he reached for the heavy artillery. “You are here today to give your bride and her family the ceremony they desire. In that ceremony, the groom awaits the bride at the altar. You must come inside now.”

With greater reluctance than Boz had ever seen him show, Nial nodded and slowly made his way to the door. His tread slow and labored, he walked to the altar like an old man. The guests began to glance around uncertainly. None of them had ever seen the laird like this. All had seen or heard of the couple’s love and commitment to each other. Laird Maclee had been open enough about his feelings. What was this about?

It was an anxious group of three who waited at the altar and Nial’s face grew more grim with each second that passed.

******

At the house, Heather prepared to step outside on her father’s arm. Her mother had walked ahead so Carrick paused for one last moment alone with his little lass who would become a wife today.

“I should ask you if this is what you want and if you are certain. I have the feeling that is not necessary and my concern would be misplaced. Is that true, Heather?”

Heather radiated happiness in her wedding finery. She refused to wear the dress hurriedly tailored for her by the London clothiers. She wore the ancient dress that brides of the Clan MacIver had worn for countless years. The fabric and lace was aged to a deep creamy hue that suited all of the shades of brown in her hair, and set off her golden eyes as though it had been crafted for her alone. The joy on her face answered her father's question before she spoke.

“I love Nial and I always have. I am still amazed that he loves me, but his actions have made it impossible to doubt his feelings. There is no concern, father, unless it is that my groom shall die of anxiety before the ceremony is done.”

“Daughter I suddenly find myself not at all anxious to give you away. However, I agree that your groom is terribly anxious to take you. In fact, I am a little surprised he hasn’t barged over to carry you to the kirk. Never saw a man in quite such a hurry to wed. Ready, little girl?” Carrick asked as he held the door and took her arm for the short walk to the chapel.

******

Inside the chapel, the change in music heralded the beginning of the ceremony. Nial panted for breath as he gripped the banister of the altar to keep from running to get his bride. Bonnie swept into the chapel and was seated. Heather would be next.

His eyes fixed upon the door but sudden agitated movement beside him caused him to look at his best man. Boz bent in half, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Nial stopped breathing. Boz waved his hand toward the door.

Nial forgot to let go of the banister when he turned to dash out of the chapel. He heard the sound of wood breaking when he took a piece of the altar with him as he nearly flew to the chapel door. He jerked it open and ran outside.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Heather and her Father were laughing over how frantic Nial had been on the way to the kirk. When they rounded the last curve she stumbled over a stone. They were in sight of the kirk when she realized she had dropped her bouquet as she stumbled. Carrick ran back to retrieve it. She stood alone and unguarded for only a matter of seconds, but it was only seconds that the man awaiting her needed.

He darted out from behind the Dule tree she'd just passed. He drug her over to it and put the tree at his back. She covered him from the front. He fished for something under his jacket and she felt cold metal pressing against her right breast. By the time she opened her mouth to scream, Nial erupted from the kirk, leaping down the entire flight of stairs to land on his feet, only a short distance away.

"Hello, again, my friend," Calum said, spitting the word out like the vilest of insults. "Planning to call your warriors? None of them can help you now. The time for their help would have been during the search, when the lads confiscated all the weapons. Or should I say, most of the weapons. They allowed me to keep mine, for they believed me to be one of them still, a loyal little soldier. 'Twas easy to gammon them, you see."

Nial gulped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carrick come to a lurching halt, clutching Heather's bouquet in his left hand, while his right hand lingered uselessly where Nial's did - on the butt of pistols they could not draw.

"Ahh, Papa is here now, too. Isn't that nice, Heather? Your father has made it in time for the grand finale," Calum said, as he veered the barrel of the pistol up and down between her exposed cleavage. "Neither of them will risk drawing their weapons, you see. They know that my finger is right on the trigger. One nervous tick and then, bang - you'd be dead. They can kill me and doubtlessly they will, but in the end, 'twill matter not at all."

Nial heard the sound of running feet and knew without looking that armed warriors from two clans stood with weapons poised and useless. Heather shivered and her eyes sought his for strength he wished he had. He held her gaze as he spoke to the man who now rubbed the barrel under the neckline of Heather's dress. "What is the meaning of this, Calum?"

Heather gave a squeal as the cold metal ventured further into her garment, but forced herself to hush when she saw the affect her distress had on Nial's composure. Calum noticed as well. "Oh, how sweet. Little Heather is being brave so that her beloved knight in shining armor doesn't get upset. Some bloody knight he turned out to be, ehh, sweetness? Look at him, the metal of my pistol plays where his mouth has surely cavorted many times and he stands as helpless as a lamb led to the slaughter. Ahh, but 'tis not he who shall face that fate. His death would be too fast and too noble. He'd far rather die a hero than face life without you."

Panic flared in Nial's eyes. He suppressed it quickly, but not quickly enough.

"That's right, my friend. Today your faerie fated forever is the lamb."

"What do you want?" Nial asked, his voice carrying the terror he couldn't conceal any longer. "Whatever it is, we can arrange it. I give you my word."

"Carte-blanche? And if I say I want your role? Will you entrust the Clan Maclee to me now, Nial?"

Without blinking, without pausing, ignoring the hissed caution from Boz, Nial said, "Yes."

"What if I want the clan and your life? Will you give me both?"

Again the reply came, immediately. "Yes." Then a deep breath, a long pause and words that sounded more like a prayer. "Just let her go. I'll walk over and take her place. You can kill me and take over as laird. Just don't hurt Heather."

"Stop," Calum said, halting Nial after a single step. "You'd trade the clan for her. You'd trade your life for hers. But I seek neither and need none of your arrangements that inevitably have you finishing at the head of the pack. You see, friend, what I want, you can't give me, for if you give it, I don't succeed. What do I want? Second place Calum shall finish first this time. I want to win. But if I'm to have only one victory against you, it must be the only one that matters."

"Calum," Nial said, jerking his eyes from Heather's by dint of will alone. "You've been my closest friend for years. For God's sakes, we played together as children. We ran races on foot and horseback, we learned to fight together, we swived our first lasses together, we...."

"And every time you won. You ran faster, your horses crossed the finish line first, you fought harder. And the lasses? Those not good enough for you anymore should do quite well for me, right? Well, not this time. Under the grief tree, Nial learns to lose." With his last word, Calum leapt around the lass, his arm already extended and he pulled the trigger.

“Noooooo,” Nial shouted, leaping the second Calum moved but he still couldn't outrun or outpace the lead ball that slammed into Heather. She fell back with blood spurting from her chest. He heard the sound of several shots and then a cackle that melted into a grunt before the other man made no more noise. He didn’t have to look up to know that Calum was dead. The knowledge gave him no joy. His world had narrowed to the scope of one small woman lying in his arms.

“Sweetheart, you promised you wouldn’t leave me. You promised. Now you have to hold on. I love you. You can’t leave me. Heather?” In his agitation the demand in his voice was unmistakable. He lost all grip on logic and his hold on sanity was fleeting. He bent closer as she spoke, covering her form with his own far too late to make a difference.

“I love you too, don’t grieve for me. You must go on. Promise?” She asked in broken and barely audible words. Her eyes spoke louder and carried knowledge of her impending death. In her final moments, her world also narrowed to the man who clutched her like he'd hold her here by dint of his will alone. She had not a single doubt of his love for her, for his soul was in his eyes, as he unreasonably resisted the efforts of Mac, the elderly healer who had spent most of his strength parting the crowd to kneel beside the bride.

At Mac’s repeated urgings Nial finally moved away just enough to allow the healer to attend her, but he didn't leave her side. He held her hand against his heart while the elder examined her and his lips moved ceaselessly saying words even Mac couldn’t hear. Only Heather knew the words were a prayer to a God he couldn’t believe in a moment later when Mac slowly straightened and looked at him with eyes as bleak as the message of the impending death they delivered.

He held his world and rocked her gently while he crooned words of love so tender that the crowd stepped back a pace. Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he bit his trembling lower lip to try to hold back the sobs that could only make this harder for her. His gaze met Carrick’s and then Bonnie’s, and he saw that her parents had already begun to mourn. Then he saw Boz, and hope had left his gaze too. All three cried quietly.

A thin trickle of blood emerged from Heather’s mouth and Nial lost his battle to hold back his wrenching sobs. The sobs were expelled against the swelling stream of blood as he whispered against her parted lips, “Sweetheart? Heather, you promised. Don’t leave me. You won’t leave me here alone, will you?”

“Nial,” she mouthed, the power of speech gone from her, “you must go on without me.”

The large crowd was completely quiet. Even the wind stilled. Nial felt the light of hope leaving as life drained from the woman who held his heart. His hands clutched his chest, as he felt the pain of her loss in waves like an ever-tightening fist gripping his heart. That was when he felt it laying next to his heart where he had carried it every day since his father passed it to him as his last act on earth.

He backed away from Heather who was beyond feeling anything, as consciousness left her in these final moments. He stood, and his eyes met the puzzled gaze of Boz. Nial’s trembling fingers pulled the ancient pouch from the pocket next to his heart as his thoughts dwelled on the long ago ancestor who waved the flag to save a herd of dying cattle. He'd touched it rarely. The first time had been when his father explained its purpose, the next to toss it to the witch who bought her death by touching the flag forbidden to all but the laird. The last time had been to unfold it when he proposed to the faerie fated forever he'd found and won and by God should be able to keep. He'd never waved it to summon the faeries. His eyes veered to the elders.

“No. Laird Maclee. You can not.” Eaoseph spoke for the group, united in opposition. “The next use of the flag will be the last. If she dies it will be a tragedy, surely, but her death will not threaten the Clan Maclee. Our clan will survive whether or not she does. Only one use remains and it must serve the good of all. The life of this one woman is a matter of personal import to you and not of survival to the clan. Using the flag for this woman would violate your oath of duty to your clan. If you use the flag for the selfish purpose you contemplate you betray us all.”

Nial's fingers barely paused as he spoke. “If Heather dies, two will be buried in her plot and no hand of my family shall survive to wave the flag.” The gasps of the crowd did not deter his words. “If Heather dies then the Laird of the Clan Maclee will die by his own hand immediately after her.” The voice that had been so shaky as he bent over his dying lady a moment earlier was now firm and certain as he ignored the mutters of “blasphemy” and “he wouldn’t” to continue. “Heather and I are one heart and one soul. For me to try to live without her would be the act of a fool. If she dies today, so do I.”

With his final words, he pulled the navy fabric from the pouch. Like the immortal lady who had gave it so long ago, the fabric had not aged a day and looked newly woven. He waved the faerie flag three times, loudly speaking the words drilled into him by his father, words he never thought he would have to say.

“The Clan Maclee has need of the faeries to save it from sure and certain destruction. I call upon the
sidhe
for the promised help. Faeries appear. Faeries appear. FAERIES APPEAR.” His last cry was lost in the crash of thunder that accompanied the appearance of the regal King of the Faeries. Beside him, garbed in the glorious green that had won the heart of Ian Maclee generations ago, stood the Princess of the Faeries. Surrounding them a vast number of warriors perched in battle posture, weapons at the ready.

“Why have you summoned us this day, Laird Maclee?” asked the King, haughtily.

In the presence of such power Nial reacted with the stubborn refusal to recognize any man as his superior that was the hallmark of the Highlander. In a demanding tone, he replied, “My lady lies mortally wounded. Use your faerie magic to heal her.”

After a long silence, the King replied, “We decline.”

Heather’s breathing changed, growing irregular and intermittent. It came forth, when she managed it, with a loud clatter.

“The death rattle,” the King observed calmly.

In a still surly tone Nial said, “Damn you. She is my faerie fated love. As you well know, the lairds of my clan continue to labor under your curse. I know you have watched my efforts to win her back. I know you have thrown obstacles in my path and laughed as you watched me struggle with them. Yet I won her love and her heart and she is to pledge me her future today. You must heal her!”

The King folded his arms over his chest implacably. “We are not motivated by demands, Laird Maclee.”

Heather gave a long broken breath, exhaled with a coughing spasm and spurts of bright red. Nial forgot everything else and ran to her, collapsing beside her and wrapping her in his arms, willing her to draw another breath. It was a long time before the next one came and it emerged with a moan of pain as a small stream of blood began to fall from her nose. Nial’s composure visibly crumbled and he buried his face against the wound in her chest as his entire body shook with his sobs.

“Laird Maclee?” He had to say the name several times before he succeeded in gaining the man’s attention again.

Nial stood on shaky legs to hobble towards the Faerie King. He was drenched in Heather’s blood, but his eyes retained a little of the stubborn laird as he spoke. “Please. Please help her. Please, “ He faced the King full on and said, “Please help me. I can’t live without her.”

“We might, mind you, just might be able to save her Laird Maclee. But, the price of our help is high. Likely, you would be unwilling to pay. Perhaps, we should leave,” and he turned as though to go.

“No,” Nial cried imploringly, all demand gone from his voice. “No price is too high. I will pay anything. I will do anything.” He stepped forward to touch the shining arm. His hand should have passed through that arm but it did not.

“The price is that which you value most - your pride and your dignity. Your clan and your neighbors watch the plea you have already made with distaste. They wait for you to tell me to go to Hell. Will you do that? The price my good laird, is that you must beg for my help. When you have begged pitifully enough, I might, mind you, just might give it to you.”

Nial stood quietly for a moment. He heard the elders hissing “no” and “tell them to sod off.” Then he heard another labored breath and he had to struggle for his own. He had never begged and would rather do without than ask. Do without Heather? Impossible. She was the one thing he had to have to live. So he said, “I beg you for your help.”

The King laughed in a great crashing sound that reverberated through the crowd. “Nice try, but a man can only beg properly if he is on his knees. If you would have me save your lady, my proud Highland laird, you will break the fundamental code you all live by. You may not kneel properly to your God or your King, but you will get down on both knees before me and beg me for my help. YOU WILL HUMBLY BESEECH MY AID ON BENDED KNEES.”