He was incredible . . . .
Or maybe she was having that nervous breakdown she’d contemplated earlier. Do people having nervous breakdowns suffer from hallucinations about incredibly handsome men showing up in their bedroom?
“Oh, my God. What are you doing in my . . . who are . . . how did you get in here?” Cate demanded, slamming her glass down onto the dressing table and jerking the chair out in front of her. The little chair wouldn’t do much to stop someone his size, but somehow it made her feel better.
He paused for a moment, just staring at her before he spoke. “I am Connor MacKiernan. I’ve crossed time seeking yer assistance, milady. Only you can help me.”
He had the most wonderful Scottish brogue. Cate leaned toward him for a moment and then shook her head to clear it.
“Right.” Stall for time and this hallucination would probably go away. “Through time.” Oh my, he was gorgeous, and with that accent . . . !
But one of them must be crazy.
He was dressed like an ancient Scots warrior, boldly standing there with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, in a bubble of green light, in the middle of her bedroom.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Highland Guardian Excerpt
To my mother, Beatrice Alexander, for instilling in me an early and lasting love of the written word, and especially for introducing me to the world of Romance novels.
And to my husband, Frank, for his encouragement and for never doubting that I could do anything I set my mind to.
Acknowledgments
Many people have helped make this book possible, but I’d like to specifically thank the following:
My sons, Nick (for being the first to read my books!), Chris (for forcing me to learn how to update my website guest book!), and Marty (for answering that phone call!).
The best critique partners in the world, the Soapbox Divas: Irene Goodell and Kirsten Richard. They never let me slack.
The women who were instrumental in the process: Terri Valentine, Kally Jo Surbeck, Sue Grimshaw and Maggie Crawford. You are all special ladies.
And of course, my editor, Megan McKeever. She made the terrifying task of revisions easy.
Thank you all!
PROLOGUE
The Legend of the Faerie Glen
Long, long ago on a beautiful spring day in the Highlands of Scotland, a Prince of the Fae Folk peered through the curtain separating his world from that of the mortals. There, deep in a glen Pol thought of as his own, he saw a beautiful young woman gathering herbs. He watched her for a very long time, until her basket was nearly full, and he knew he had fallen in love with this innocent mortal. His love was so great for this woman that he was able to slip through a crack in the curtain between their worlds. Pol appeared to the maiden in his true magnificence, making no effort to disguise himself, for he knew she must love him for what he was.
Rose had wandered deep into the forest that day, gathering her herbs, and she had become entranced by the serenity of the glen. When Pol appeared before her, his beauty stole her breath away, and she knew at once that this was her own true love.
Pol and Rose dwelt happily in their idyllic glen next to the little stream where first he had seen her. But after a mortal year together, Pol was forced to return to his own world, for in those days, far in the misty recesses of time, the Fae abided by very strict rules.
One of those rules governed how long one of their own could remain outside the Realm of Faerie. Once returned to his own world, Pol would be unable to pass through the barrier again for a full century. And though one hundred years was nothing in the life span of a Fae, Pol knew his Rose would be no more at the end of that time.
Rose returned to her family, knowing her prince was lost to her forever. At first Rose’s father, the old laird, was ecstatic that his little Rose had returned to him, even hearing her fantastic story of the Fae prince with whom she had spent the past year. Soon, however, it became apparent that Rose was with child, and her father and brothers were furious. Not only was their Rose a ruined woman, but to their way of thinking she had been defiled by a devious, unholy creature of magic. They began to treat her not as their beloved daughter and sister, but as their most reviled servant.
Rose toiled in the hot kitchens from sunrise to sundown each day and suffered all manner of indignity, but she didn’t care, because her heart was gone from her. Her reason for living had disappeared with Pol.
Meanwhile, Pol could only watch with growing dismay, unable to pass through the curtain separating their worlds, as his beloved Rose slipped farther and farther away.
Finally the day came when Rose delivered her babes—three strong, healthy, beautiful girls. But Rose, whose spirit was damaged by the loss of her one true love, did not survive their birth. Rose’s father refused to look upon the faces of the infants and decreed that they should be taken deep into the forest and left for the Faeries to whom they belonged—or the wolves. He cared not which claimed the infants first.
The old laird himself led the small party deep into the forest. As fate would have it, they were in the very same glen where Pol had watched Rose for the first time. The old laird ordered the infants to be laid on the grassy forest floor near a small shallow stream. Rose’s brothers, who had each carried an infant, laid the babes on the ground and remounted their horses in preparation to leave the glen.
Pol, watching at the curtain between the worlds, was livid with rage and wracked with grief. Not only was his beloved Rose gone from the world, but now her children, his children, were being cruelly abandoned. His tormented cry of anguish reached his queen, who, in a rare moment of pity, broke the rules and opened the curtain just enough to allow Pol to slip through.
The wind suddenly began to howl through the tiny glen and thunder rumbled ominously. The ground around the old laird’s party heaved and shook, and the old laird himself was thrown from his horse to the forest floor. He and his sons watched in horror as boulders pushed up from beneath the earth in the very center of the stream, piling higher and higher, one upon another. There they formed a magnificent waterfall and a deep crystal pool where only moments before a shallow stream had flowed.
Pol rose slowly from the depths of the pool, choosing to play upon the individual terrors of the men by appearing to each of the mortals as that which they most feared.
“I am Pol, a prince of the Fae. And you”—he swept his arm to include the brothers as well as the father—“have incurred my wrath. Now you will pay the penalty.” His gaze tur
ned to the helpless infants lying nearby, all three strangely quiet and untouched by the tumult around them. “These are my daughters. My blood runs strongly in them.” Pol moved to the infants, gently picking up each one in turn. “I name each of you for your mother, my beloved Rose. For all time, your daughters shall carry a form of her name to ensure that her memory will live on in this world forever. I give each of you my mark and my blessing. Know this glen as the home of your mother and your father.”
Pol turned back to the old laird. “I charge you with the care and the safety of my daughters.”
“Never,” the old laird hissed. “They are yer abominations. You take them. Neither I nor my sons will shelter yer spawn at our hearth.”
“Oh, but you will, old man, and you’ll be grateful to do so.”
The shape of the Fae prince shimmered and grew until it filled the entire glen, surrounding the old laird and his sons, weighing them down with the power and the fury of the being they had angered, blocking everything else from their view and their minds.
Pol smiled with evil satisfaction. Well he knew the weaknesses of mortal men. His voice rang in their minds, all the more terrible for not being spoken out loud. “Should you or any male of the family fail to nurture and protect my daughters, hurt them or allow anyone else to hurt them, prevent them from making their own choices in life, or deprive them of finding their one true love, you shall suffer my curse. You will bear no male offspring. Any sons already living will suffer the same fate. You will be unable to enjoy the intimate company of any female ever again. Your line will die out and your name cease to exist in your world.”
Pol waited for the full impact of his words to sink into their minds. Then he continued. “My blessing on my daughters, and thus my accompanying curse, will carry forward for all time, passed from mother to daughter. As even the smallest drop of my blood flows in their body, so they will have the power to call on me and all Fae to aid them. My mark upon them and upon all the daughters of their line guarantees all men know the penalty they will suffer for harming my beloved daughters.”
As Pol’s terrible voice reverberated in the minds of the old laird and his sons, his form shifted and shimmered around the infants, enveloping them for the first time, and the last, in the emerald glow of his love.
The old laird still lay on the ground where he had fallen, trembling with fear. And although he could not see the infants through the green mist surrounding them, he could hear what sounded impossibly like children’s laughter.
Just before the mist faded, each of the men present felt an ominous warning echo through his mind.
“Never forget.”
Later, much later, the old laird and his sons crept close to the infants to find them sleeping contentedly, each one bearing the mark of the Fae prince. The old laird gently gathered up his granddaughters—for so they must now be to him—and hurried from the glen.
Pol’s daughters grew and prospered and eventually married, having families of their own. In time to come, though many generations of the Fae prince’s offspring traveled and spread to varied parts of the world, all the men of all the lines continued to honor the Legend of the Faerie Glen.
CHAPTER 1
Sithean Fardach
The Highlands of Scotland
1272
The clatter of metal on stone rang through the air even as the goblet spun slowly to a stop on the floor where it had landed.
“Tantrums will no be helping you, laddie.” The old warrior shook his head, warily eyeing his companion sitting at the far end of the great table. “You only waste good ale.”
Connor MacKiernan glared at him. It was a look that had weakened the knees of many a strong man. “Nothing will help me now. I am as the weak, helpless fool, all my options closed save one.” He dropped his head into the crook of his arm on the table. “I am a king’s knight, yet my sword might as well be a woman’s pretty feather for all that I can do.” He spat the words as if they soured and burned his mouth. “I dinna want to involve Rosalyn. This is no my aunt’s trouble, Duncan, but mine. I am to protect my family, no to place them in greater danger.”
Duncan pushed back from the table laughing. “The Lady Rosalyn would, I wager, see things verra differently, Connor. Dinna she tell you her plan would make everything work out just as you need?”
“Aye.” Connor lifted his head only enough to peer up over his arm. “And that’s what worries me. There is no regular way out of this mess. You ken that as well as I do.” He raised an eyebrow and leaned toward the older man. “She takes a terrible risk.”
Duncan took a long drink from the tankard in his hand and shrugged. “So she’ll use her gift.” It was a statement of fact, not a question, and required no answer from Connor, who simply continued to glare at the older man. “It is what she does, laddie, as did her mother and her mother before her. She disna deny who she is.” Duncan took another long drink and smiled. “ ’Tis no good reason to waste such fine ale.” Duncan strode to the far end of the table, placing his hand on Connor’s shoulder as he sat down next to him. “It’s no she disna ken the risk to her if she does this, Connor. It’s that well she kens the risk to all of you if she does nothing. You must remain here with yer sister, laddie.”
“Aye, it’s my duty to see her protected and happy.”
Duncan lowered his head, speaking quietly. “You ken there are men who would follow you. Men who would fight for you if you choose to oppose yer uncle. To take back what’s rightfully yers. You do have a choice.”
“And how many would die then, Duncan? How many innocents would be caught in the middle of that great battle? We’ve been over this many a time. I’m no willing to sacrifice the lives of so many of my people.” Connor groaned, dropping his head back down to his arm. “It disna matter, Duncan. I’ve failed my family yet again. Rosalyn was right. In order to save Mairi without bringing death to my people, I hae no choice but to risk my aunt’s use of the magic.” He shook his head, sighing with resignation, and sat up straight. “Rosalyn bids us leave this night. She’ll be down soon.”
“She’s down.”
Both men jumped to their feet at the authoritative sound of the female voice coming from the entryway. A tall blonde woman, with a bearing equally as authoritative as her voice, strode toward them.
“Quit yer sulking, Connor. We’ve been all through this. You ken it’s the only way out. I promise you, this will be the answer to all yer problems. Do you hae the trinket I requested?” Rosalyn MacKiernan smiled at her nephew, ignoring his glare much as Duncan had. Fully expecting his compliance with her earlier instructions, she held out her hand.
“Aye.” Connor reached into his sporran and handed over a small velvet pouch.
Rosalyn opened the little bag and dumped the contents into her hand. “Oh, verra good, Connor. It’s exactly the piece I had hoped you would choose.” She glowed with happiness as she lifted the emerald pendant, light from the candles reflecting in the facets of the jewel. “I remember when Dougal gave this to yer mother. It was at the dinner when they announced they were to be married.” Her soft blue eyes glazed over with memory for a moment as she began to turn away, but she quickly turned back. “Oh. I almost forgot.” She smiled at her nephew then, in a way that always worried him. “I need a small something of yers.” Again she held out her hand expectantly. Seeing his momentary confusion, she explained, “Something of yers, Connor. Something personal. The magic willna work without it.” She paused and looked around the great hall. “I know . . . yer plaid. A piece of yer plaid will do nicely.” At his frown, she sighed. “Just a small bit, Connor. Honestly, nephew, must you make everything a battle?”
Connor shook his head, knowing it would do him no good to argue. He tore a strip of material from the end of his plaid and handed it over to Rosalyn. “I trust that’s the last thing you’ll be needing of me, Aunt.”
“Indeed it is.”
Rosalyn paused and Connor could feel the forces of fate gathering around him.
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“Weel, except for yer presence at the glen.” She looked remarkably innocent for someone so devious.
Duncan choked and spit out the ale he had just taken into his mouth. “The Faerie Glen?” he managed to croak. “Och, I should hae guessed that was where you’d be wanting to go.” He looked at Connor. “You may hae had the right of this, laddie. I’ll go see to the horses.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “And just where do I tell the others we’ll be headed? Yer uncle will ask them when we’ve gone, you ken?”
Connor considered this for only a moment. “Tell them we head to the port in Cromarty. We’ll be back within a fortnight.”
Duncan MacAlister, although easily twenty-five years Connor’s senior, was closer to him than any man alive. The grizzled warrior had served Connor’s father from his youth. Only Duncan could be trusted with the truth of their destination.
Duncan nodded. “Lady Rosalyn”—he bowed slightly in her direction—“I’ll be in the courtyard awaiting yer readiness.”
“I suppose it’s the Clootie Well you’ll be wanting?” Connor’s ice blue eyes reflected his irritation. He shook his head in disgust. “I will regret this, I am sure,” he muttered.
Rosalyn beamed at her nephew. “My things are at the foot of the stairs. You can take them out and see that Duncan has our horses ready. I’ll join you shortly.”
Watching Connor stomp out of the great hall, Rosalyn smiled. How like his father he was. Both of them handsome and strong, just as her own father had been. Both of them clung rigidly to ideals of right, wrong, honor and responsibility to the family. Both held themselves to standards higher than those against which they measured anyone around them.
Those lofty ideals had brought her older brother an early death on a lonely battlefield. She would do anything in her power to prevent that same fate for Connor. Knowing the sacrifices her nephew had already made for his family, and the burdens he carried, she loved him all the more. This one time, however, she wanted Connor to get what he needed.
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