by Jeanne Rose
Damn. He was withdrawing before her very eyes. “You’re wrong, Bain. I don’t know nearly enough.”
“More could put you in danger, brave Caitlin, and I’ll be having none of that.”
“What danger?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “All right, then, how about your distant past? Let’s go all the way back to your formative years. Surely knowing about your childhood is safe enough.”
“Aye, one’s childhood should be safe,” he agreed.
But the way he said it, his tone mournful, made her believe that his hadn’t been. Thinking of Ty, of the way she’d sheltered her younger brother and her own emotions concerning his withdrawal and recovery, she chose not to press Bain.
As they approached the refreshment tent, they passed a man draped in a plaid and playing bagpipes, his stunning, porcelain-skinned, carrot-topped companion doing a Highland sword dance. Stopping to watch for a moment, Bain tossed several coins into the dancer’s basket and received a smile in return so bold and sultry that Caitlin imagined they knew each other. Her furrowed brow was smoothed when Bain took her arm and ran his cheek along her hair, convincing her she was the only woman who had his interest now, at any rate.
“I thought you were hungry and in a hurry to eat,” she murmured, leading him off.
“I am,” he said, his long, hot look making Caitlin feel as if she were to be the main course.
She was distracted from erotic speculation by a pair of noisy warriors jostling the crowd. They wore their shoulder-length reddish-blond hair tied on both sides, and their mustaches were so long the stringy tips hung nearly to their chests. Both sat horses whose only tack consisted of crude bridles and woven cloths. One of the men was drinking from a horn-shaped vessel, his raised arm embellished by a huge blue snake tattoo.
Caitlin froze, struck by a sudden thrill of fear.
“Is something wrong?” asked Bain.
She swallowed and told herself that many men could have snake tattoos. A twining serpent was a Celtic motif. “Some of these fairgoers get pretty realistic.”
Bain merely raised his eyebrows.
When one of the horses snorted, she decided to ask about Raven. “Your horse isn’t around here somewhere, is he?”
“Nae, I sent him home.”
“Alone?”
“He knows the way.”
Thinking this was surely a tale, she narrowed her gaze at her date. “And how will you get home?” She expected him to say he’d let her take him.
“My steed knows my whistle. He will find us.”
Did Bain plan to sweep her away from the fair on horseback, then? Caitlin wondered, happier than she remembered being in a very long time.
Food at the refreshment tent also seemed reminiscent of the ancient past. Dishes of boiled pork, roast ox and game were advertised on crudely printed signs, as well as bowls of curds and milk and horns of ale or mead. Though Caitlin opted for a more familiar roasted turkey leg in the way of food, she gladly tried the mead and soon felt the effects of the sweet liquor made from honey and spices.
Her tongue grew loose.
“About that childhood,” she began, ignoring her earlier reservations about pressing him. She wanted to know everything about Bain. “Was it so terrible?”
He sat across a planked table from her. “It felt endless.”
“That’s a pretty common experience. When you’re young, a week takes forever to go by. But when you get old, the years seem to fly. Or so I’ve been told.”
“But most children have at least one parent to count on. To spend time with.”
“Yours weren’t around?”
He shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of food. “Not often enough. Servants raised me. Other jealous children in the castle were always playing tricks on me until I didn’t want to be with them, either.”
He sounded like he’d been a very lonely child, Caitlin thought, her heart going out to him.
“Your parents were what? Traveling on the continent?” Isn’t that what wealthy couples did?
“My mother had a great responsibility running her and father’s various interests.”
“Hmm, a career woman.” No doubt one who wanted to take it slower now that she was older and relied on Bain to shoulder all that responsibility for her. “What about your father?”
“Too often involved in military maneuvers.”
“An army man?”
“He belonged to a select group of fighters.”
“A mercenary, then.”
“Of a sort,” Bain agreed, taking a swig of ale. “His death was a waste. He wasn’t even in a real battle at the time, merely a silly skirmish. I wanted to revenge him, but my mother stopped me. I was too young, she said, and told me to wait at least until my voice deepened.”
Having dealt with loss, albeit a temporary one, Caitlin empathized. “So you don’t have many memories of him.”
“Nae, but the ones I do are stronger than you can know. He had a half-brother born out of wedlock, an angry young man, who wanted everything that belonged to Father. Thinking he could take over with the correct leverage, he kidnapped me and held me ransom.”
“How horrible.”
Bain nodded. “I was alone and frightened and thought I would be left to rot in that hole. I thought I would never hear my mother’s lovely voice in song again. I don’t remember how long I was held . . . an eternity to a small boy. I only remember the day Father broke into the narrow chamber where I had been caged. He looked so grand and powerful wearing his plaid and weapons. When he took me in his arms, there were tears in his eyes. A dangerous and fearless man unafraid to cry for his son . . . that’s how I’ll always remember him.”
Staring at the open emotion etched on Bain’s face, Caitlin’s own eyes stung. She found his hand and grasped it tightly. “He must have loved you very much.”
“Aye. And I him, especially after that day he gave up his other duties to come for me.” His free hand wound around hers. “Does it satisfy you to know this, brave Caitlin?”
She wouldn’t be satisfied until she knew everything about Bain. “It’s a start. A good start,” she emphasized, locking onto his gaze.
Something invisible and indefinable and invincible sparked between them. He’d told her so little and yet so much. Admitting to the kidnapping had to have been difficult for a man with so much strength and pride. He’d opened himself to her, and unless she was a terrible judge of character, it wasn’t something Bain Morghue did often.
First, he had to trust.
Caitlin wanted to tell him he could trust her, that she wouldn’t let him down, that she would never leave him alone for even one day. Then she realized the gravity of her thoughts. The consequences should she change her mind tomorrow and choose to return home. She wasn’t ready for this. A serious commitment. And with a man who seemed unready to commit himself to so much as a date until today. She was ahead of herself. Ahead of them.
She was in love.
The thought elated her and frightened her and plagued her. What to do? Eat. She stared at the half-stripped turkey leg and suddenly realized she was ravenous and yet without appetite. Was this what being in love was like? Feeling all of a jumble? Uncertain?
If so, then she was alone in her torment, for Bain seemed to be having no trouble gulping down his food, swilling down his ale.
Giving him a filthy look that he missed altogether. He was too busy filling his mouth. Caitlin picked at the remaining turkey-flesh until Bain finished, heaved a great sigh, and leaned on his elbows looking utterly contented.
“Swine,” she muttered.
“What?”
“I was merely thinking about the hog wrestling those two men into the mud,” she fibbed.
“‘Twas amusing,” he conceded, though he looked at her carefully as if he didn’t trust her explanation.
“I’m done. What next?”
“Something to lift your spirits. Come.”
He held out his hand. For a moment, Caitlin
thought to refuse him. Then she caught the soft glint in his mesmerizing eyes. A glint meant for her alone. Ah, she was lost, well and good.
Before she could get her wits together, Bain swept her across the grounds and was pulling her into a smaller tent whose floor was a bed of furs. Their steps were hushed as they entered. Everywhere she looked shadows warred with pools of light. Candles on the floor, on tables and even set in higher niches made layer upon layer of hanging silks shimmer and glow as they undulated delicately with each slight draft of air. Antique mirrors suspended everywhere reflected images back and forth, giving Caitlin the feel of infinity. Of intricate illusion.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“A timeless place. One where the past, present and future come together without warring.”
Puzzled, Caitlin drew closer to a central table, its scarred surface of varied woods inlaid in Celtic designs. Two chairs opposed each other and in the table’s center lay a large pouch of blood-red velvet.
“Seeking truths are ye?” came a lilting woman’s voice that seemed to surround them.
Seeking the source, Caitlin whirled so fast that the wreath flipped from her hair. “Who . . .?”
Her question faded into nothing when she realized she was alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAITLIN’S HEART THUDDED strangely. “Bain?” How had he disappeared so fast? Why had he left her? And where had he gone?
“He is one with the night,” the disembodied voice answered cryptically, as if its host could read her mind. “He knows what needs be.”
A tall, bold, shadowy form inched through a maze of silken banners. Caitlin’s mouth went dry and she felt absurd for being afraid. She was at a fair, for heaven’s sake, and this woman was merely a . . .
“But ye need to see the future more clearly, do ye not?”
. . . a fortune teller.
Caitlin forced herself to take a long gulp of air as the woman stepped into the tent’s central open area. She blinked in surprise. Rather than being tall and regal as her shadow had first indicated, the woman was aged and crone-like, wreathed in black, long silver hair hanging loose to her waist, back hunched, her face so lined it might have seen centuries rather than decades pass. Hard eyes on Caitlin, she held out a hand of gnarled fingers to indicate that her visitor should sit.
Obeying, Caitlin paused when her foot caught on something. The wreath that had spilled from her hair. She picked up the ring of dried flowers and ribbons and hung it from the back of her chair. The fortune teller took the seat opposite and retrieved the velvet bag. Without preamble, she tossed the contents to the table.
Celtic divination sticks.
Crude and hand carved of wood, a third of the two dozen flat sticks lay face up, their cryptic Ogham runes inscribed in what Caitlin imagined to be the red of blood.
The crone inspected a gathering of three sticks closest to Caitlin. “Mor – the Sea – indicates restlessness,” she began, her voice now sounding as aged and rough-edged as she looked. “That ye be using travel to escape yer problems.”
A bit startled, Caitlin told herself the woman must have recognized her accent as being American and figured she was on vacation. Everyone had problems they wanted to get away from, right?
“Perhaps even from danger,” the fortune teller added, that sending a tiny chill down Caitlin’s spine. She moved on to the second stick. “Coll – Hazelwood – here there be a creative fire strengthened by rising desire.”
Lucky guess, Caitlin decided, though she was shifting in her chair now.
“Ivy.” The crone indicated the third in the grouping. “Things may not be what they seem. Ye must search below the surface for the truth.”
“What truth?” Caitlin asked, trying to free herself, to believe in the magic. To fully enjoy an experience that would stay with her forever.
“Whatever truth ye be presently looking for.”
Bain?
“But Straif Reversed presents the obstacle,” she avowed, tapping the lone revealed stick to Caitlin’s left. “The Blackthorn is a trickster in human disguise. Beware of him and his advice, for he means ye ill.”
Caitlin’s mouth went dry. Could this represent whoever had chased her over the sea lochs? And had ransacked her cottage? She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Someone I know?”
The crone’s oddly pale eyes were piercing. “Of a certainty.” She then inspected the stick almost directly opposite. “Ah, the sign of Gift and Security. Ye be both strong and generous. Giving of yerself. Capable of deep relationships. This stands ye in good stead in yer struggle.”
“With whom? The trickster?”
“Nae. He cares for naught but himself. Beware, lass, for he be of a great danger to ye.”
The warning got to her, sent a jolt of fear racing down her spine. And, to her mounting dismay, the crone’s next statement was no more reassuring.
“Necessity Reversed.” She pointed to the stick closest to Caitlin. “Ye must avoid quick decisions. Think carefully on making a commitment.”
Her head had been filled with thoughts of commitment since she’d become involved with Bain. Odd how the fortune teller kept hitting on her fears and concerns so accurately. The old woman was fingering the last of the revealed sticks that lay in the midst of the others. Lined face pulled into a frown, she was mumbling to herself and shaking her head.
“What?” Caitlin asked, unsure if she really wanted to know.
“Not good. Not good,” the crone intoned. “Ancestral Property Reversed. A problem with inheritance . . . a break with family.”
That could mean her leaving California permanently. But it sounded more serious. Besides, “I’m not expecting any inheritance.”
“But ye can affect one. Disastrously,” the fortune teller predicted, looking fierce.
Again her thoughts snapped to Bain. He was the one with the family responsibilities. Could she have such an affect on him? Separating him from what was left of his family? His mother?
Caitlin eyed a stick tucked under the last. No symbol. “What about this one?” she asked, daring to flip it over herself. Blank.
“Wyrd.” The crone’s voice cracked as she explained, “Fate. Something ye canna know, and I canna foretell. Only fate can decide the issue.”
So in the end, she could heed all the old woman’s warnings and fate would still have the final word?
Caitlin realized what she was thinking, the stock she was putting in some fortune teller’s predictions because she’d been lucky enough to hit on a few half-truths.
This was a game, for heaven’s sake, one she was supposed to enjoy. Bain had expected her to.
“Is that it?”
“‘Tis enough.” The piercing eyes locked with hers. “Ye dunna believe . . . but ye shall.”
Caitlin popped out of her chair. “What do I owe you?” She asked before realizing she didn’t have her wallet which rested in her pant’s pocket.
The gnarled fingers waved her toward the entrance. “‘Tis done.”
“Thank you,” Caitlin muttered, rushing out through the hanging silks. She’d barely stepped foot out of the tent, had barely breathed one sigh of fresh night air, when she realized she’d left the wreath dangling from the chair’s back. “Darn!”
Retracing her footsteps, Caitlin was surprised when the fortune teller was nowhere to be seen. Both she and the sticks were gone. She wouldn’t have bet the old woman could move so fast. Wreath in hand, she was about to leave when she heard a rustling behind her. She whipped around, expecting to see the crone. No one.
A glimpse of movement caught her eye. A reflection repeated in the various hanging mirrors. A vision of a beautiful woman with long silvered black hair, dressed in a blood red gown, whose expression was threatening. And chillingly familiar.
The leader of the Fairy Rade?
Caitlin whipped around to face the other woman, but no one stood behind her. And when she rechecked the mirrors, the vivid images had vanished. Pulse crazily d
ancing, she flew out of the tent . . . and straight into Bain’s arms.
“Whoa. Running from me?”
Caitlin grasped him, was relieved to find him solid and warm and real. “From myself,” she said, her heart thudding. Panic turned to another, more erotic form of excitement. “From my imagination.” She said no more and Bain silently led her off deeper into the heart of the glen. Tension thickened the very blood that pulsed in her veins.
“‘Tis almost midnight,” he whispered.
Caitlin set the wreath back in her hair. “The real start of Beltane. I assume there’ll be some sort of special celebration to mark the occasion.”
“The ancient rituals will be observed,” he agreed.
All around them, coming from every direction, people milled toward the center of the valley. Only a few wore modern street
dress. Many had donned garb representative of the Middle Ages. But more and more individuals looked as if they were trying to appear authentically Celtic.
Several young men wearing bronze helmets and carrying oblong shields nearly as long as they were tall flirted with young women in tunics and plaids secured at the shoulder. Caitlin remembered all the inferences of lusty activity associated with the celebration and, amused, wondered if that part of the tradition would be reenacted, as well.
Just then, Bain slid a warm palm along her back to grasp her waist and tucked her neatly into his side.
Each step, each movement, each touch increased her awareness of him. She licked her lips, tried to breathe deeply, attempted to find some safe reality within the enchantment of the evening. For Bain had been correct about Beltane Eve’s being bewitching and dangerous. She was falling under the spell of the ancient holiday – she was already under his spell – caring not for the consequences of the days to come.
All she knew was that she wanted, that she ached, that she was sick with longing for Bain, as if the Eve itself had woven a spell from which she could not free herself.
Did not want to free herself.
A strange and strident sound rang out through the strath. When she looked up at Bain questioningly, he said, “A war horn, blown for battles.”
