Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (4 page)

"Well, with a widowed mother, I must find myself a husband. I have little dowry to bring to a marriage, though my five brothers might be able to help a man at his tasks."

"Might help," Eva said, chuckling. "Between pranks. Go on, now. You never know what sort of good fortune you might have on a night like this. Good night to you." She gave Margaret a breezy hug and walked away, her feet in leather brogues digging slightly into the soft sand. Margaret hastened toward the others, and Eva heard them chatting near the trees. She glanced back once when she heard the deep, familiar rumble of Lachlann's laughter. But he seemed engaged in conversation with Margaret and did not look toward Eva.

Cold and willful, the wind pushed at her as she stood near the water's edge. Under a dark new moon, only starshine reflected in the sifting sand and the loch's surface. Glancing around, she saw torchlight starring the hillsides, and she heard singing and laughter faintly on the wind. She sighed.

On Beltane, unmarried young people walked about in groups or as couples to celebrate the coming of spring. No one wanted to walk out with her, or discover with her the joy of true love, as Margaret hoped to find for herself. Eva's betrothal to a main of her father's choosing was inevitable, and it weighed upon her mind.

Wavelets lapped at her feet, and the dark water sparkled. Far out on the loch, Innisfarna's lights gleamed. Her island had passed from mother to daughter in a direct line for generations, roots tracing to an ancient clan, and further back, it was said, to the faeries. Eva had been ten years old when her mother's death left the island to her daughter, as tradition demanded.

The isle, the castle, and the ancient treasure—
Claidheamh Soluis,
the Sword of Light said to lie beneath the island—were in her safekeeping now. The legendary sword guarded the border between the earthly and the faery realms; that magical threshold must remain in the protection of Innisfarna's lady, or disaster would befall Scotland. Eva shivered at the thought.

She faced into the wind, her plaid shawl billowing and her dark, braided hair nearly unraveling, and cupped her hands to call out. Alpin MacDewar, her late mother's cousin and her father's old comrade-in-arms, would fetch her soon. More like an uncle to her than a servant, Alpin had guided the crossing boat for as long as Eva could remember.

Although her father held his own properties as chief of the clan, Eva preferred her mother's island. She loved its tall stone castle and its alder trees, surrounded by loch and legends, and the kin and friends who lived in the glen.

At Innisfarna, she felt balanced and safe. She could never live elsewhere, nor could she allow anyone to take it from her.

The loch rushed and the wind sighed, creating a soft, urgent harmony that seemed to speak to her.
Eisg, o eisg,
it said;
listen, oh listen.
Chills ran along her arms, for that phrase was the war cry of the Mac Arthurs. For a moment she sensed a formless, ancient knowingness all around her, as if the sky were about to open like curtains to reveal something timeless and powerful. She waited, utterly still.

Eisg, o eisg,
wind and water said again.
Lachh... lannn.

She heard the name clearly, and her very soul seemed to turn like a fish inside her.
Lachlannnn...

She shook her head. Yearning conjured that name, born of her desperate wish for something wonderful, something other than the marriage her father planned for her. Or could the wind have named her true love, as Margaret said? She wanted to laugh.

She wanted to cry.

Hearing more chatter behind her, she turned. The others were leaving the beach at last. And Lachlann was walking over the sand toward her, alone. Her heart quickened.

* * *

He had come to the lochside beach to gather white sand in the darkness of a new moon for the working of steel; he had hoped for peace and privacy, even on Beltane night. But when he saw Eva there, his desire for solitude vanished as if it had never been.

Glad that his friends had decided, finally, to depart, Lachlann approached Eva, carrying the bucket that was half full of sand and whistling softly for his dog, Solas.

The dog ignored him, as she usually did, nosing along the beach, head down, tail wagging. He called again. Solas turned to look at him, then bounded away with undisguised delight.

Sighing, he followed in the crazy wake of the white dog, laughing when he should have scolded her. He found a stick and tossed it up the beach for her to chase. She was fast and clever, but a willful pup yet. Despite strength and heart, she would never be a well-trained hound, for her master was leaving her. Solas would become his foster mother's hearth hound instead; Lachlann was glad that Mairi MacKerron would have a loyal guardian and companion.

Ahead, Eva faced the dark, misted loch, water frothing about her toes. She turned to glance at him, then turned back. Noticing her cool response, Lachlann slowed, suddenly wondering what to say, what to do. He had not forgotten their surprising, exquisite leavetaking in his smithy.

Walking on, he felt drawn toward her, as he always had been. In boyhood, he had spent long hours in the smithy, but whenever he played, Simon and Donal MacArthur were among his closest friends. Their spirited, demanding sister was often with them, and Lachlann had come to know Eva well as they ran over the hills, climbing, competing, and getting into mischief.

He smiled, remembering how he and her brothers had lost one footrace after another to Eva. But though she was swift and determined, eventually Lachlann's legs grew so long that not even Eva could outrun him.

One day he had realized, simply and wholly, that he loved her. He was not certain how or why it had happened, but he was aware of its strength. He had always been fond of her, had always given her his loyalty, respect, and protection. Then she bloomed into a stunning young woman, strong and willful, tender and unpredictable. And his heart had dropped through him like an apple tumbling from a tree.

Solas whipped past him, and he whistled again, lengthening his stride over the sands. Eva turned as the dog sped by her.

"It is a good thing that dog is white," she said. "You will never catch her in the darkness, otherwise."

"No doubt you, Eva my friend, could run fast enough to catch her no matter what." He grinned and stopped beside her.

"No doubt." She smiled up at him. "I thought you would walk out with the others." Her gaze seemed wide and luminous in the starlight.

"Beltane is not for me. I came here to collect sand for the steel. Did you call for Alpin?"

"I did, but I do not think he heard me over the wind."

"He is probably asleep in his little cottage on the isle. You will have to use the ram's horn that hangs on a tree on the other beach. I can walk you there if you like."

She watched him, and he wondered what she thought, if she guessed his feelings. Fool, he told himself; he should have gone on his way. Only distance would slow the drumming of his heart and cool his blood again.

"I do not want to keep you," she said.

"Keep me," he said generously, then regretted such a flippant, suggestive remark. "I am not in a hurry," he amended, and began to stroll beside her.

"The water is so black tonight," she mused, "and the fog sits like faery wings upon it. I was thinking about the legend, and the Sword of Light that lies so deep in the water."

"Aeife's tale." He smiled. "That was always one of my favorite stories when I was a boy. The loss of that sword in the water seemed such a tragedy to me. Faery blades are hard to come by," he added wryly.

Eva laughed. "You know how much work is involved in making a sword. And it was sometimes a custom to throw a sword into water to mark the end of a feud. I think there is a tradition that MacKerrons once crafted faery blades themselves."

He shrugged. "Long ago, a MacKerron boy was stolen by faeries. His father searched for him for years. When he finally found the boy, he was working at a faery forge, making magical blades. They went home, and the son made a good living as a weaponsmith," he finished lightly.

"If you knew his secret, you could make an excellent living too. Then you would not have to go to France to earn a knighthood and property."

He glanced at the loch rather than at her, for those storm-green eyes often saw too deeply into him. "But I will go."

She paused, and he stood beside her. "They say the Sword of Light must never be disturbed in its place of peace." She gazed at the dark water. "Do you know what will happen if Innisfarna is lost from the keeping of a woman of Aeife's line?"

"Some kind of a disaster, I think."

"Devastation in the Highlands," she said bluntly. "And destruction of the Highland ways. Only the woman who holds Innisfarna can avert it."

He lifted a brow, looked at her. "Do you believe that?"

She shrugged. "It is a powerful legend, and I am not certain what I believe. But I know I must keep Innisfarna safe however I can, and give it to my daughter one day. If I have only sons, it will go to my granddaughter."

"Someday you will have a daughter as lovely as you... as the princess Aeife is said to have been," he said, catching himself.

He shifted the bucket to his other hand.

"I hope I have a daughter someday. Lachlann, why do you gather sand in such darkness, instead of during the day?"

"White sand is excellent for hardening steel, and it is best collected under a new moon. It is a perfect time for beginnings." Yet all he had known in his life was ending in one way or another.

"Will you make another sword with that sand?"

"Just one. I must finish my own blade before I leave for France in two days."

Her face as she looked at him was a gentle shadow. "When will you be back?"

"I do not know," he answered flatly. He glanced at the loch. "The mist is thickening. Alpin MacDewar will never see you here."

"And his hearing is not so good now."

"Or so he pretends, when it suits him."

She laughed. "You know Alpin well."

"He is not a biddable man, but we share an interest in good weapons. He was once a gifted swordsman, and knows much. He taught your brothers and me how to handle swords."

"Be careful. You might lose your privileges when you leave. You will have to woo his favor when you return." She chuckled.

He walked beside her in silence, carrying the bucket.

Solas scampered toward Eva, bumping into her, and the silver brooch flew out of her shawl. Eva caught it up again.

"Oh!" she cried. "The clasp is broken."

"Let me see." He wiggled it carefully, then turned to pin it into the wool, his hand brushing her upper chest. Even through the layers of wool and linen, she felt warm, firm, and delectable. His body tightened, surged. He drew his hand away.

"Bring it to the smithy and I can repair it more fully."

"Ah, is the blacksmith a silversmith too?"

"The metal needs reheating and twisting. I can do that."

"It is a shame to take such skill to France." Her gaze searched his, her eyes as silvery as the brooch. "We need a good smith here at Balnagovan."

"Do you?" he murmured. He meant her, alone. She nodded, her head tilted back as he leaned closer. His heart slammed, his mouth went dry. He wanted desperately to touch her, to kiss her again. Silence wreathed them like the fog rolling on the loch.

"I... I should be going," she finally murmured. "But this is my last Beltane. Next year, I will be... a wife."

Next year, he might still be in France—if he lived. Then he would return home to make Eva a widow. He sucked in a breath at that ugly thought, so out of place here, with her.

"We should bid good night," he said. "It is late."

She smiled. "No token of farewell?" she asked softly, coy and yet innocent all at once.

He huffed, part relieved laugh, part sigh. "I gave you one the other day, and I should have apologized for it. Do you want another?" His heart pounded, though he tried to speak lightly.

Her eyes were wide as she nodded. "Oh... very much."

In that instant, a power engulfed him, and he gave in to it, pulling Eva toward him swiftly. Her lips softened beneath his, and his hands fit the supple curves of her waist. She circled her arms around his neck, all warm grace and willingness.

Caressing the arch of her back, he scarcely believed that he held her again. Her mouth fit beautifully to his, her body curved in complement. Desire built a storm within him, despite the inner voice that cautioned him to think, to slow down—

Stop.
He forced himself to pull back. "Eva—"

But her lips were hungry beneath his, her hands heated where she touched his chest through his linen shirt and belted plaid. Drunk with an irresistible blood fire, he kissed her urgently, then once again forced himself to pull away. Leaning brow to brow, he held her waist and tried to catch his breath. "Eva—"

"Hush, you," she whispered. "Do not speak. Do not end the dream." She touched her nose to his, inviting another kiss.

He resisted it like a salmon going against the river. "What dream?"

"Mine," she whispered. "Lachlann—" His name was a breath upon her lips. "I wonder... what love is like. I think I may never know, unless you show me tonight."