A Faerie Fated Forever (4 page)

He reached for her when she turned to go back to her chair. “Would you like to spend the evening talking about another woman, or could we move on to more stimulating activities?”

She smiled and crooked a finger as she moved toward the bed. He followed, unsure why he felt he had to obey the unspoken command. He didn’t ponder long because his little head ruled his body right now and thinking was not that head’s preference. It invariably sought a more physical game.

She spread herself like a feast for his ravenous appetite. When he would have joined her on the bed, however, she shook her head no. “I’m not the only one who likes a good view, laird. You’ve been looking a lot since you arrived.”

He flushed, because he knew he’d been leering like a lad about to take his first woman. Oddly, he started removing his kilt before he questioned why he was doing it. He never obeyed orders from women, even if they coincided with his own desire at the moment. He refused out of sheer ingrained contrariness. He intended to refuse now, but she'd started to toy with her turgid nipples through the gossamer and he found himself entranced. His hands tore his kilt away before he could stop himself.

“You’ve been a good boy. Now you get a prize,” she said, and he leapt into the bed. He had taken far prettier women but for some reason, he wanted this one. He wanted this one a lot.

She smiled and trailed teasing fingernails down the length of the staff that most of the women who panted after him would only grasp in their dreams.

“Now it begins,” she murmured, as her skilled talons teased his tormented need, keeping him at the edge of the precipice, knowing the anticipation would make the pleasure all the more intense when she finally allowed it. His answer was a deep groan, but it was all the response she sought. He thrust and moaned in a haze of chemically enhanced lust, nearly helpless in a world where only the need in his loins was real.

Early morning arrived before he could tear himself away. He opened the door of his room, acknowledging that he was exhausted. Unfortunately, his bed was already occupied. He didn’t know who the young woman was, but she was blonde and beautiful and naked. Following his normal pattern, he left the door open and stood in the doorway as he called for his squire, instructing him to get the woman out of there. He had learned that it was better not to cross the threshold at all.

He was too spent to endure the trauma of another eviction, so he went to Calum’s room, where he had bedded down in the past when he had been too tired to await the always dramatic retreat of a thwarted schemer. His entry disturbed the other man.

“Another wench in your bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Who was it this time?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

Calum sniffed and chuckled groggily. “I can tell why you weren’t interested. Don’t know who you’ve been with tonight but she must be good. You reek of sex. Who was it?”

“Sorcha. Yes, she was good. Exceptional in fact.”

He had invited her to attend the festivities. The elders would scream and complain which might be why he did it, he wasn’t sure. He had been so turned on that his brain wasn’t working well, if at all. He didn’t know what he’d been feeling, but it seemed like claws of passion. Was this the one? Virginity was prized in his family, and all of the other faerie fated loves had been virginal. It seemed odd that he would vary from that pattern, and his heart felt strangely intact. His loins were surely involved, but not his heart.

Still he was happy. This was the first time he had felt anything like those claws so he would wait and see if the rest would follow. He rolled over, and went to sleep as the morning sun crept into the room.

Several hours later, Heather vibrated with excitement. The coach drew within site of the castle that rose from atop a rocky outcropping to loom majestically over a world of water. The front entry showcased manicured hedges, but the side garden was like the Highlands, wild and free. Surrounded by a loch and rising over the Sea of the Hebrides, the castle took its name from the mountains. The magical atmosphere of the Isle had its source at Kilcuillin, the castle held by the clan with the blood of the Shining Folk running through their veins.

The elders awaited the family. They made no comment upon her appearance, opting instead for diplomacy. “We will show you to your chamber, lass so you can change and be prepared to greet the laird.”

Hints that that hurt seldom found their mark, but this prick was particularly sharp. “Many have that wish but none more so than Mother. I am who I am and how I am, I fear, sir.”

One of the elders wrinkled his brow, shrugged slightly and then called a servant to help her upstairs. She didn’t linger in the room long. What did one of her dresses matter rather than another? She could never change enough to be prepared to greet Nial. After prowling for a few minutes, she gave up and went back downstairs.

“Surely you had something else to put on,” Bonnie nearly growled when she walked into the room filling with beautiful women, each wearing a gown more sensational, and more low cut than the next. It was quite plain what sort of interest they planned to inspire.

“No, Mother. Everything I have is pretty much the same. If you will excuse me, I will go and blend quietly into the woodwork,” she smirked, and her mother sighed in exasperation.

It was about a half-hour before the laird arrived. Nial bearded the lion in his den by joining Seamus, one of the most avid proponents of the match from hell. "I see Laird and Lady MacIver but I do not see the chit you most wish me to. Where is she?"

Seamus pointed to the girl standing in front of a window, with her face pressed against the panel.

"I looked right over her twice," Nial said caustically, "But that's hardly surprising, is it. She is so very easy to overlook."

"Make an effort, laird," Seamus gritted between his teeth.

"Since I apparently can't put this off forever, let's get this over with and I shall pray that soonest started is indeed, soonest ended."

The elder called her name, which was rare enough to startle her. Then he insisted she walk over to greet Nial. For an instant, she looked at him, her panic as plain in her posture as it was in her soul. She remained frozen. Seamus had to get her and walk her over to the laird. She had spoken to him only once, that time at the fair. How did you greet a highland laird who wanted you the same way he wanted pestilence and famine?

His natural charm took over to sooth her. “Lady Heather, what a pleasure to meet you at last. It was remiss of me not to visit and extend my apologies to you personally after that horrid incident at the fair.”

She smiled, and he took her hand to kiss it in greeting. As his lips grazed her fingers, she humiliated herself by moaning. She promptly tried to snatch her hand away.

“I believe I shall keep it for now,” he said, surprised to find that he meant it. What was the jolt he felt when his lips met her fingers? He’d never felt anything like it before. Well, he amended, only once before and that involved her too.

“It is a pleasure to see you again. I was about to say that I doubt women generally moan in greeting, but perhaps to you,” she said brightly, “they do.”

“Well, usually they just try to grab me somewhere.” He winked, saying, “On the whole, I believe I prefer the moan.”

His words were polite, but inside, he was horrified. Surely the elders could not think him capable of vowing fidelity to this lass. She wore a long sleeved gray dress made of enough fabric to clothe every female servant in his household. It bore not a bit of lace or trim and looked like a sack. Certainly, it had all the appeal of a sack. Her hair was stuffed into a bonnet and she looked like a granny. He must have been drunker than he thought at that fair.

Soon other arrivals drew him away. He played host and greeted several families, each with one or more daughters in tow. Invariably, those daughters batted their eyelashes – reminding him of spiders caught in a gale. Several propositioned him and one made a grab for his crotch right in the foyer. He was, as always, ready with the Maclee swipe. After that, he turned away in disgust, deciding he had greeted more than enough people. As he turned, he spotted the girl heading upstairs.

He called to her, “Not tired of the party already are you?”

She shrugged. “I'm going upstairs to read for a bit.”

“A dime novel?” He teased, approaching her so that he could say it softly. “One of those passionate tales of lust and eternal love?”

“I’m sure that would make a better impression. I really should lie and say it was, but actually it’s a new text on medicinal herbs.”

“Indeed?” He was surprised, for most of the women he met cared about nothing except their appearance, their current surroundings, the weather or catty gossip about the other women present.

At his interest, her face lit up and she nodded. He moved a bit closer to hear her words, and she went on to say, “I have a great interest in learning more about the healing powers of herbs.”

“Do you use your knowledge or simply store it away?” Admittedly, he was challenging her a bit with that one, and he fully expected a diatribe about the fact that knowledge is never wasted. Perfectly true, but not the point at present. Maybe, he just wanted to see how brightly those eyes could sparkle – if he could see them under the wretched bonnet.

Instead of the heated response he expected, she smiled and tilted her chin up. “Improper as it may be to admit it, such small knowledge that I have I do use. If there is something I can do to help, why then I am obliged to do it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He was leaning towards her as she stood a step above him on the stairs. He hadn’t even realized that he was holding her hand as they spoke. But just as she tossed the challenging question at him, and his eyes sparkled at the prospect of having an intelligent debate with a woman, he heard challenging laughter behind him. He turned to find Sorcha glaring at Heather’s hand pointedly, prompting the girl to jerk away from his grasp. The black-haired woman put her hand on his arm as she spoke in a voice designed to carry to the ladies grouped at the foot of the stairs and the older matrons just starting to make their way down.

“Tell me you didn’t just confess to exposing yourself to all manner of improper sights, germs and vermin to treat some servant or tenant farmer or one of the many bairns they sprout like weeds?” She laughed and glanced around at her audience, “Hardly the actions of a lady, my dear. Certainly not acts of which Laird Nial would ever approve.” Sorcha finished her speech with a burst of laughter, and those nearby joined her.

A couple of male voices raised, saying, “Here, here!”

Heather didn’t bother to wait for a response from Nial, since he was apt to agree with the sentiments voiced by the beautiful black-haired witch who rested her hand on his arm so casually. Fighting back tears, she sprinted upstairs, to laughter that grew louder as she ran.

Nial noticed a maid a couple of stairs away sweeping up some shattered glass. He saw her eyes narrow as she raised her broom and turned around quickly, striking the glass in Sorcha's hand. It tilted and red wine cascaded over the front of his shirt and pants. He bit his lip to keep from raising his own voice in a cheer for the maid. He made a mental note to raise her pay instead.

The widow whirled and spied the servant who brimmed with false apologies. Sorcha shouted, “You little bitch!” She raised her hand to strike as the girl flinched away.

Nial caught Sorcha's hand, preventing the blow. His expression was as cold as his voice. “We do not strike our servants.”

She stammered that she had simply been carried away by concern for his comfort.

He cut off her words, not interested in hearing more at the moment. “If you will all excuse me,” he said with a courtly bow to their audience, “I must go upstairs and change. By all means, you should continue to enjoy the party without me.”

He mounted the stairs, fighting an impulse to go after Heather and be sure she was all right. To tell her that he had not agreed with Sorcha’s sentiments. And perhaps even to touch her again to find out why he had the strange sense of being cast adrift when she snatched away her hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

Heather threw herself across the bed when she reached the safety of her room. She was so full of love and hate that she felt she might explode. In the brief moments of their exchange, Nial had been the living embodiment of her dreams – intelligent, considerate and caring. He had seemed interested in talking and even in considering her thoughts, her opinions. He held her hand. She flexed it and stared at it a moment as though it might look different now that it had been graced with his touch.

Who was the woman? Did she have some hold on him? Heather wasn’t sure who she was but she instinctively knew what she was. Evil. The woman was pure evil. Proof positive that beauty could be only on the outside. But she and the laird did make a handsome couple, so dark headed and attractive, so confident and self-assured. Both were everything Heather wasn’t.

Heather knew she was too strange to be considered even passably attractive. But that was okay because pretty often meant a weak character, like Mother’s. Granny said that the time Mother spent on hair and clothes and such could have been better spent helping the poor and the sick. Heather sometimes thought Granny was right, although she had to acknowledge that her mother didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body. Even though Granny was gone now, she still felt like the rope in a tug-of-war, eternally stretched between Granny and Mother. She thought about it whenever she saw that look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Whenever she refused one of Mother’s attempts to dress her up or take away her bonnets and to stuff her in one of those tight heathen garments the others wore. It wouldn’t matter anyway because like Granny said, she was a sow’s ear sure enough.

A knock sounded at the door, and Heather opened it cautiously to find the young maid who had been cleaning the stairs just above them.

“Beggin’ ye’r pardon lassie, but I’ve a note for ye from the laird.” The girl said with a curtsey.

“Thank you, ahmm ...”

“It’s Fenella, ma'am.”

“What a lovely name. Thank you, Fenella”.

The girl took her leave and Heather hurried inside to read her note. A note from Nial. Imagine!

It said,
Lady Heather, please accept my apologies for the scene you had to endure on the stairs a few moments ago. Rest assured that Sorcha does not speak for me. I hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner, as I have asked that you be seated beside me, in hopes that we may continue our discussion. Nial Maclee.

She read the note three times, then traced it several more, following the strokes of the quill and imagining him writing it and thinking of her.

It was nearly dinnertime, so she might as well head downstairs. She cast a single wistful look at her closet, wishing she had something that would dress up the sow’s ear a little. On her way out the door, she paused by a mirror, glancing at her bonnet. She started to remove it, but remembered Granny warning that anyone who saw her hair would be “plumb scairt” by the strange concoction.

Regretfully, Heather simply walked out the door. She was even more regretful a few moments later when she arrived downstairs. She entered the room like an ugly duckling gliding into a pool of swans.

“You poor thing,” one of the kinder matrons said.

Another woman leaned to the kind lady and whispered something.

The kind lady snorted, as she said loudly, “No. Not possible. Well, I’m an elder myself but I’m not an old fool. Laird Maclee will never tie himself to that one.”

Heather breathed in deeply and went to find a nice, hidden corner to sit in. It was there that Nial found her a few minutes later. He asked permission to join her on the small sofa, and she shakily replied, “Well, after all, it is your sofa.”

“I suppose that is correct,” Nial agreed, with a smile that turned sad as he sat down and looked at her through lowered lashes. He shook his head slightly and sighed as he took her hand. “I’m so sorry about, well about all of it. I fear you have not been treated well at Kilcuillin thus far.”

“I’m fine, Laird Maclee. You mustn’t trouble yourself. Such things happen to me often,” Heather said, finding his sympathy more difficult to stomach than open animosity. She could withstand hatred and jeers easily enough. After all, she had lots of practice.

"So you take taunts like that often? You poor thing. No one should have to face such animosity."

The sympathy had been tough enough but her spirit rebelled at the pity. She turned the tables and challenged him. “I’m sure such things never happen to you do they, Laird Maclee?”

“Nial, please, if you will allow me to call you Heather. No, you’re right. Such things don’t generally happen to me.”

“But then again, I rarely have to spend my time fighting off the wandering hands of suitors, and I understand that happens to you all the time,” she commented and the man across from her started before he threw back his head and laughed loudly.

“What’s so funny?”

“On the rare occasions when I'm forced to acknowledge one female's attention to another I'm usually treated to a veritable font of jealous, spiteful comments. Or else I hear something like, why that cat, how could she presume to touch you. Somehow, Heather, you don’t seem quite as eager to protect me or fence me in as the other lasses.”

“It looks to me like a big braw lad like you could take care of yourself, ” she said as she quirked a brow doubtfully. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, nothing I could do would assist you. As to the fence, if you don't erect it yourself I imagine you'd spend a lot of time figuring out how to scale it.”

"You're a canny, cunning wench, aren't you?" Nial asked. "Your words remind me of a book written by a Scottish philosopher. It's titled,
Lads, Lasses and Labels
. Have you read it?"

"McLamb's challenge to the traditional role of the sexes?" Heather asked delightedly. "Heck, I've devoured the thing. But you're the first lad I've ever heard admit to reading the book. What did you think of it?"

Her questions launched a lively debate that continued with gusto until Sorcha showed up carrying only two goblets of wine. The black-haired widow passed one to Nial before she cast a spiteful glance at Heather. “I fear I was too delicate to carry a third one.”

Heather's spirit dimmed as she observed the laird watch the conniving bitch. Before she suppressed it with a Granny homily, she heard her mother's voice in her head talking about the pretty lure. Nial's eyes swept the length of the other woman without a trace of pity or sympathy. The widow wore a silver garment cut tight enough to have been sewn on. The seamstress must have been running low on fabric before reaching the neckline. Her breasts peeped over the top of it like apples piled too high in a basket. 'Twas male interest for the other woman sparkling in Nial's eyes so clearly that inexperienced Heather identified it as he drained the goblet in two swallows.

“All of that talk must have stirred a thirst. I thank you for quenching it, Sorcha,” Maclee said with a wink.

“I’ll be glad to quench your thirst, anytime, ” Sorcha replied, perching on the arm of the sofa beside the laird. That movement caused her long black locks to trail down and touch his neck. She turned towards him and hunched her shoulders slightly to display even more of her breasts than the low cut garment did already. Heather tried to keep up the conversation, but Nial wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the woman’s bosoms, so openly displayed that she, who surely didn’t want to see them, could hardly miss the sight. She shook her head at how easily the obvious ploy distracted the laird and tried again to suppress her mother's caution about the pretty lure.

Trailing a finger down Nial's arm, the widow said, “She and I both wear gray tonight. Who wears the color better?”

He responded in a voice much deeper than it had been a moment ago. “There is really no comparison, is there, my dear?”

Heather started at the comment. That it was true wasn’t the point. It was out of character for the man she imagined he was. The words, coming from him, hurt a great deal and she murmured, "Honesty can be more brutal than all the taunts and jeers combined."

His eyes didn't leave the fruit about to overflow the widow's basket but his cheeks took on a bit of the hue of those apples and he winced at the direct blow. "I didn't mean..."

The wicked widow interrupted, standing directly before the laird as she tugged an amulet of some sort that had conveniently fallen into the vast crevice of her cleavage. She fingered it as she spoke. “Since I compare so favorably, perhaps you could tear yourself away from the pleasure of her company and join me in private for a moment.”

Heather watched Nial gulp as he goggled at the charm swaying over the prominent produce. An odd cloud swept over his navy eyes as his tongue rimmed his lips. After silent moments that felt like forever, he stood and Sorcha placed a proprietary hand on his forearm.

A pang of alarm impelled her to save the braw laird and a spasm of jealousy spurred a sudden longing for a fence. Compelled a bit by both, Heather tried to draw back his attention and chase away those clouds. “I will see you at dinner so that we can continue our conversation.”

He didn’t answer and his mesmerized regard didn't waver.

Still fiddling with the talisman, Sorcha replied instead. “It’s not conversation he wants from me dear. You shouldn’t hold your breath waiting for him. Then again, do. Please do.”

Heather awaited Nial's return through the entire meal but the chair beside hers remained empty. It received glares from all of the elders and across the way she saw her mother lightly rub her father's shoulder in an apparent effort to calm him. It didn't seem to help because Da's ruddy face darkened every time he looked at the chair.

Calum made his way to Heather after dinner and apologized for the scene at the fair, which he assured her would never have happened if he hadn’t had too much to drink. She knew this man was Nial’s friend and clansman and decided to err on the side of forgiveness. She put on a smile, chatted and pretended an animation she didn’t feel because she had too much pride to appear devastated by Maclee’s desertion. They traded stories about interesting folks who were members of each clan

He told her a story of a farmer. “Old Ian Grant spent his life trying to create the perfect Highland plough. The only problem was, he worked so hard at thinking up new ways to improve the device that he never managed to use it to tend his fields. His wife refused to hear a bad word about him – she defended him right up to the point where she keeled over one day tending those fields. Old Ian was a few feet away at the time, drawing a plough design on the dirt for their sons, who weren’t working either. It was some time before any of them noticed that the one who did all the work had gone on to her reward. ‘Twas said she passed with a smile on her face because she was lying down for the first time in years.”

She broke out in laughter, recounting a tale about one of her clanswomen. “That tale reminds me of Cora. Her marriage was a contentious union, as her husband never tended the land to her satisfaction. She let him know about it too. She let him know at home, at the pub, at clan celebrations – pretty much anywhere he happened to be at the time. As the years went by, the man would look high and low for hiding places from his nagging wife. He passed in a cave, and it took Cora half a day to find him. When she did, she had been complaining for about fifteen minutes before it occurred to her that anything was wrong.”

Calum laid his hand on her arm. “Perhaps we should introduce the widower and the widow, Heather.”

“Yes indeed. Do you suppose she would get any work out of him?”

“I suppose that both our clans would be betting on that for years to come.”

After several more tall tales, Heather rose to leave. Calum tried to detain her but finally acceded to her pleas that she was tired. He insisted on escorting her to her room. She was so keyed up and worn out that she reached up and removed her bonnet before the door shut completely. She didn’t see the other man stick a foot in the opening to watch her unwind her bun before she ran her hands through her hair and shook it out. Then she sat at the bureau and started patiently combing the long rainbow.

He spoke from the doorway long after she thought him gone. "How doesn't Nial see this?"

Heather jumped to her feet and grabbed her bonnet, intending to jam it on her head. She didn't because she realized it was much too late. It was also much too useless since he'd now seen her freakish hair and seemed to be mesmerized by her cursed eyes.

"Don't," he said as a command before he altered it. "Please don't. You're exquisite and unique and absolutely breathtaking. Comparing you to all the women downstairs is like comparing a Highland meadow in spring to a
Sassannach
garden."

"And yet their laughter is far kinder than your sarcasm, sir."

"I can't imagine how Nial doesn't see this. Has he been so blinded by rage that he can't see the truth beneath your disguise?"

Heather twisted the bonnet between anxious fingers. Her heart beat so fast there didn't seem to be a space between thumps. This man was the laird's friend. Had she ruined everything by a moment of carelessness?

She approached him, nibbling her lower lip anxiously. She laid a hand on his arm and when she spoke her tone was as plaintive as her words. "Calum, I beg you not to tell him. I know you're his friend, but I promise you I mean him no harm. I'd treat him well and I'd make him happy, I really would. This is my chance. I have this one opportunity to make my dreams come true. Please, don't take this away from me. Promise that you won't tell him."