White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  … and another stepped into her field of vision. She pivoted and flung the dagger into the other attacker.

  It left her side open.

  Spinning back, she tripped on her hem, a breath too late to defend herself.

  A loud crack resonated a hand’s length in front of her nose. She blinked at the silvery blade dripping with blood.

  Boyden.

  His sword blocked the captain’s swipe from taking off her head.

  With superior strength, he shoved the smaller man back.

  “Coward,” her infuriated mate snarled. “Attacking her from behind!”

  In the next moment, Captain Rigoberto screamed a bloodcurdling cry of surprise and rage. He stumbled back. His sword toppled out of his hand and landed on the ground with a loud thwack.

  With eyes bulging in astonishment, the captain coughed crimson spittle down his chin. Blood shooting out of his throat like a waterfall, she watched him fall backward, dying almost instantly.

  Spinning around, she pulled the Darkshade dagger out of the chest of the dead attacker. With a sword in one hand and the dagger in the other, she planted her feet wide … breathless and intent for the next attack.

  None came.

  The battle was over.

  She looked to Boyden.

  Boyden walked over to the seven dead men on the ground, their arms sprawled wide in a last fruitless attempt to claim their prize. The three remaining attackers, cowards in all, were running away down the slope of the hill, never looking back.

  He looked over his shoulder and his blood-spattered mate grinned triumphantly at him.

  Against greater numbers, they had fought and won.

  He could easily wrap Scota in his arms and kiss her fiercely in joy. However, since hostile villagers surrounded them, he decided to wait on their celebration.

  “You have brought blood spill to our village,” Leader Aedan said angrily, walking up to him.

  Taking a deep breath, Boyden prepared to face the irate older man calmly. “ ‘Twas never my intention to bring harm to your village, Leader Aedan.”

  “Yet, you did,” the leader grunted, some of his initial anger waning.

  “I canna control the actions of others and ask you to consider this in your decision of us. Were any hurt in your village?”

  They both turned, searching the worried faces, and Boyden grew thankful at what he saw.

  “It dinna seem so,” Aedan answered for his people after a moment. “Frightened, but not hurt.”

  Boyden nodded and wiped the blood from his blade on the brown tunic of one of the dead men. “Invaders come to our lands, Leader Aedan.” With a quick shift, he slid the sword back into the scabbard at his back. “Your people have been blessed that war has not yet reached your homes.”

  “We are safe here,” the leader agreed wearily. “The hill protects us.”

  “You are not safe. It is foolish to believe it so,” Scota challenged, joining Boyden. She felt a bit shaky and jammed the Darkshade dagger back into her belt.

  “Scota.” Boyden motioned her to silence with a warning glance and turned back to address the concerns of the upset leader.

  It was a good thing for she felt weakness coming over her.

  “We will leave your village,” her mate offered while the world seemed to gray and dim around the edges.

  “Aye, methinks it best you do.”

  Scota heard little else. She tried to reach out for Boyden but found she could not lift her arm. Her world tilted, and her legs gave out from under her. She crumpled in a dead faint.

  CHAPTER 17

  “SCOTA!” BOYDEN CAUGHT HER BEFORE her head could hit the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, as it never did during battle. Kneeling, he cradled her protectively. Suddenly afraid, he searched her body for any kind of injury.

  “How bad is she hurt?” Aedan asked, leaning over him, casting shadows across his mate’s face.

  “I doona know. I canna find any wound.”

  “Boyden, bring her to my home,” the simpler Nia said, touching his shoulder. Her tone was laced with the sympathy of a healer. “I will see to her care.”

  “They canna stay.” Aedan straightened, addressing his concerns with the simpler.

  Nia greatly disagreed, though nodded. “I understand Aedan. I ask only for time to see to her well-being before you send them away.”

  “Do it swiftly, simpler. More trouble follows them, and I willna have our people caught in the between of it. They are fey cast, and you know my feelings about the magical.”

  “I understand.” Nia nodded again with patience.

  Having stated his preference, the leader walked away and motioned to several of the villager men, calling them by name. “Come and help me bury the dead far away from our village. Beyond the trees, methinks. I doona want their stink leeching into our crops.”

  Boyden ignored everyone but his unconscious mate. Her cheeks were pale, and her skin far too cold to his touch. He checked each of her limbs for wounds. Finding nothing, he focused his search on her shoulders, breasts, stomach, and then lower. Turning her over, he inspected her back and bottom, running his hand over every curve.

  “Come, Boyden.” Nia tapped his shoulder.

  Ignoring the simpler, he turned Scota over, whispering a silent prayer to the gods and goddesses to heal his mate of the unseen injury. He buried his hands in her hair, searching her scalp.

  “Boyden, I ask you to bring her to my home so I can tend to her. You can do nothing here.”

  He gave a quick nod and lifted Scota in his arms. Her head rolled listlessly to the side. Shifting her slight weight in his arms, he scanned the surroundings for threat. Many villagers turned their faces away in apprehension of him. They reacted this way because an outsider had named him faery and he was once again reminded of their prejudices against the fey.

  “They fear what they doona understand, Boyden. Doona judge them too harshly,” the simpler tried to explain.

  He had seen this reaction often times before. Most of the other tribes feared what they did not understand, feared the warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  Cradling his injured mate in his arms, he looked down at the simpler. “Do you fear me, Nia?”

  “Nay, Boyden.” She pulled on his wrist. “Come, your enemy be gone. You are safe for now. Carry Scota to my home, away from these gawking faces.”

  Holding Scota close, he followed the simpler back up the trodden slope to her round cottage. He listened to her breathing and with a quick adjustment, tucked her head under his chin.

  “Doona leave me, Scota,” he said low, barely above a croak. “I canna breathe with the thought of you gone from me.”

  Eyelashes fluttered feather light against his chin, and his heart lurched within his chest.

  “Why would I leave?” she mumbled, not fully awake. She blinked up at him, momentary blankness dulling the turquoise hue of her eyes.

  “What happened?” She rubbed her temple. “Why are you carrying me?”

  “You fainted,” he replied, his heart easing.

  “I do not faint,” she grumbled with denial and rested her head back against his shoulder, arms wrapping around his neck. “Put me down.”

  “In a moment.” He managed a smile at her curt command and walked into the simpler’s cottage. It was shadowy inside, and he followed the healer to another one of her small, herb-scented rooms to the left.

  “Place her on my bed, Boyden.” The simpler gestured with a wave of her hand and turned to move a wooden table of decorated combs and bones out of the way.

  “I am fine,” Scota protested, which he ignored. Avoiding a pair of simple, one-piece, rawhide shoes on the floor, he gently eased her down onto a bed of colorful woven blankets and moved back.

  “This is needless,” his warrior mate groaned aloud. “I want only some water to quench my thirst.”

  The simpler sat down on the edge of the bed. “Boyden, I have water in the main room. If you would be so kind as to fe
tch some, I will look to her.”

  “I do not need looking after.”

  Boyden ignored that comment, too. His lips quirking, he went in search of goblets or leather bags to serve as containers for the water.

  Ready to argue, Scota turned her attention to the simpler.

  “Hush now, Scota,” Nia commanded, taking charge in the time-honored fashion of a village wise woman.

  Undaunted, Scota continued to glare in rebellion at the older woman. As a warrior, she had experienced many wounds in battle, but never did she faint for no apparent reason. It was … embarrassing. The problem, she quickly decided, was the unborn babe stealing her strength and the simpler watching her with an all-too-knowing gaze.

  “You doona seem to be cut anywhere.”

  “I am not,” she replied firmly. The fragrance of herbs wafted in the air, and she detected the soothing scent of almonds. Meadowsweet, she thought. The creamy, white-flowered plant was favored among all healers, and she remembered it growing down by the tiny streams. Her people’s wise women dried the plant and added it to warmed water flavored with honey. It cleared many a stuffy head and made the senses joyful. These people, she mused, were not so different from hers.

  “My thanks, Nia, but I am well and do not need tending.” She tried to sit up, but the healer pushed her back down. It was a gentle but firm command for obedience. “Rest a moment, Scota. Do you hurt anywhere?”

  Scota shook her head, reluctantly admiring the stubbornness and compassion of this woman. “No,” she answered, expecting that to be the end of it. Unfortunately, the simpler did not seem to understand.

  “When was your last moon time, Scota? When did your womb bleed?”

  Scota’s bit her lip. “Why would it matter?”

  “Methinks you know why.”

  She clasped her hands on her stomach, the hilt of the Darkshade dagger pressing into her wrist with a nauseating heat. “I do not remember,” she answered and changed the subject. “Do you have a cloth?”

  “Why?”

  “I wish to wrap my dagger.”

  It was obvious the simpler thought her response odd, but she reached behind her for a scrap of clean wool. Scota took the cloth, pulled the dagger from her waist, wrapped it thoroughly, than safely wedged it back at her waist.

  “Why do you wrap that dagger?” the simpler asked, curious.

  “To keep it safe.” And away from me.

  The simpler studied the wrapped dagger with a furrow to her forehead. “It be fey?”

  “Yes,” Scota answered, offering no further explanation.

  “I understand.” The older woman folded her hands in her lap. “You left last eve’s food under one of my trees this morn.”

  Heat flushed Scota’s cheeks. “It has been a difficult few days, and my stomach bothered me.”

  “How do your breasts feel?”

  Scota pulled back. “What?”

  The wise woman leaned forward. “I asked, how do your breasts feel?”

  Tender. “Fine.”

  Scota disliked seeing that knowing smile.

  “Methinks a fey babe roots in your womb from Boyden, and this is the reason for your unaccustomed weakness. As this appears to be your first, mayhap you doona recognize the signs.”

  She did not know how to respond to that and sat up abruptly. Looking over the woman’s shoulder, her gaze collided with dark shadows of amethyst.

  “Boyden,” she said softly, wondering how much he heard.

  “She is with babe?” he asked, his gaze a physical touch on her face. He stood unmoving, a thin veil of emotion smoldering just below the surface.

  A silent exhalation of air left her lungs. She could not tell if he was pleased with the news or affronted.

  “Aye, methinks so, Boyden, but it be too early to tell.” The simpler rose from the bed and went to him. She touched his sinewy forearm. “She be well enough to travel if you go slow. I will prepare food for your journey.”

  He bowed his head. “My thanks, Nia. You have been generous to us.”

  The simpler patted his arm and left them alone.

  Scota looked away, chaos streaming within her. She knew battle and sword, knew the taking of life. She knew nothing about nurturing life. The simpler’s awareness of her condition made it more terrifyingly real. Boyden’s awareness filled her with apprehension for no reason she could name.

  The bed dipped with his weight.

  He held a silver goblet out to her. “ ‘Tis water.”

  Taking the goblet of water from his steady hand, she found to her great chagrin that her own hands were trembling. Staring dejectedly at his knee, she sipped.

  “My thanks for your aid, my warrior. You saved my life.”

  “Yes,” she agreed without conceit. He had been one warrior against ten. “You killed the captain,” she murmured.

  “He deserved it. He was …”

  “… evil,” she finished for him and lifted her face.

  A terrible tension pulsed behind the calm facade of him. His hand grasped her chin, a calloused thumb stroking her jaw, stroking the mating bite of claim forever marking her flesh with his scent.

  His mouth lowered, finding her lips with a tender, heart-wrenching kiss.

  “ ‘Tis my babe, Scota?” His question muffled against her lips, and she pulled away from him in hurt outrage.

  Boyden stared into wide, turquoise eyes, the silence lengthening between them, and chose his words carefully. “At the spring, you were …”

  She waited, unblinking, the golden shards within her eyes shiny with indignation.

  He reformed his thoughts. “When an arrow impaled your lung, you said a fey born saved your life.”

  “Yes,” she replied cautiously.

  He hesitated. “Did the fey born leave something behind?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, a great glacial disturbance rising within him.

  Her chin tilted upward with temper. “But not what you be thinking of, you big oaf. The fey born was female. Remember? I told you this.”

  Her hair was suddenly bunched in a big hand, tilting her head gently backward.

  “Tell me the truth, Scota.”

  “Tell you what?” She grabbed hold of his thick wrist, ready to do battle.

  His eyes shone dangerously. “Doona tease me in this.”

  “I do not tease. The babe is yours, Boyden.”

  The tension eased in her hair, but he did not release her.

  She remained passive to his silence, his body pressed against hers. “Do you not believe me?” she whispered.

  “I believe you.” His mouth lowered to hers with a tender kiss of possession. “When it comes to you, I am undone.” Boyden drank of her, his body throbbing in need. If the fey born of the spring did not claim her womb, then it was his seed rooting. Joy and terror washed over him in equal waves.

  Joy, at the thought of having a son or daughter with Scota.

  Terror, at the thought of passing on the accursed blood threads of his line.

  Small hands pressed up against his chest. He kissed her cheeks, her throat, her ear, her chin. He could not get enough of her.

  “Boyden,” she gasped with tantalizing laughter. “Your kisses steal my air.”

  “And you have stolen my heart,” he whispered without thinking against her temple. He froze, a great release of relief washing over him. He loved her? Why had he not recognized these feelings before?

  Fingers dove into the hair at his temples, holding him still.

  She stared up at him and he waited, desperate to hear her return vow.

  “I love you, Boyden, but I believe you already know this.”

  He grinned, his heart near bursting. “Aye, Scota. I know it.” He caressed her face. “I always knew I would win your heart.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Arrogant, brooding, impossible …”

  “Aye,” he agreed silkily.

  “Kiss me.”

  He framed her face with his hands and took
her mouth, took her breath, her heart, and her spirit into him for all and the forever time. He could taste her heartbeat, her lips soft and inviting against his, calling him. His body stirred, hardened, a compelling need, coiling low, as old as time itself. He wanted her wild and hungry under him. The war and his private struggle against the lethal Faery Wind faded until only she remained in his arms, warm and alive.

  Hair lifted from his shoulders.

  A cold gust nipped at his flesh, and she tore her mouth free with a strangled refusal, pushing out of his arms.

  He let her go, not understanding.

  White mist swirled behind her, forming …

  “Scota?”

  He stared at a reflection behind his beloved, a sudden and terrible comprehension taking hold of him. Passion and desire waned into chill, blood threads swirling, thickening, pulsing into ancient memories of betrayal.

  He rose from the edge of the bed, backing up slowly, a sickening rage coiling in his gut.

  “Boyden,” Scota called, unable to reach his hand. “Why do you look at me so?”

  The reflection returned his unblinking gaze, pinning him with illusionary heat in challenge and demand.

  CHAPTER 18

  IN A CRIMSON CLOUD OF mist, the shadowy blood memory of a dead king rose up from his bones—as if it had been waiting for him all the years of his life. He stumbled back, coming hard up against a wall. The heavy weight of betrayal and anger washed over him, the inherited feelings claiming him for their own. He gazed deeply into the cold, jeweled eyes of the reflection, of the Gaoth Shee, and said with deeply felt bitterness, “I remember …”

  In the long-ago time, before the reign of the gods and goddesses, a Wind King was brought to his knees, bleeding and tainted from the treachery of a once-loved brother and his greedy lover.

  Unease rippled through him and Boyden took a shaky breath. The muddled visions faded to a single night of glowing flames and cruelty. In his mind, nightmare became memory …

  … a golden and widowed king was sweating and straining against rope restraints, the light of a fire at his back. Wrists tied to stakes in the ground, his head high and defiant, Boyden glimpsed an image of himself in his ancestor, Conall. A daughter, young and vulnerable, lay crumpled a few paces away. She was sobbing, her oval face streaked with dirt.