Under an Enchantment: A Novella

by Anne Stuart

  Malcolm held himself very still. He’d heard this story, he and his sisters, throughout their lives. The wondrous, romantic story of how their parents met and fell in love, when his father saved Catriona from the sea.

  But this time it was different. There were ominous undertones to the tale, and it was his father’s deep, angry voice that told it, not his mother’s soft, sentimental one.

  “They’d done it to her, lad. She told me the truth, and she made me swear I wouldn’t take vengeance for it. It was my cross to bear, along with hers, and I thought I’d made my peace with it. But now... now...”

  Malcolm took a step closer. His mother would never talk about her childhood or the years before she married James. Now, finally, the empty spaces would be filled. “Tell me,” he said.

  James looked up at his son, with love and affection in his blue eyes. “She lived on the island of St. Columba. She was the only daughter of a good family who’d fallen on hard times. She was a bonnie lass, one who made the dire mistake of thinking she was in love with the wrong man.” He’d known what was coming. He almost stopped his father, afraid to hear. But Malcolm MacLaren had never admitted fear in his entire life.

  “Your mother knew right from wrong. She had no intention of giving herself without the blessing of the kirk. But yon Lordship had other ideas. He took her, by force, and she was too ashamed to tell anyone. In truth, there was no one she could tell. Her parents were old, bowed down with worry, and there was naught they could do against the power of a man like His Lordship.”

  “What happened?” He barely recognized the sound of his own voice. He sounded like a hungry wolf, raw and angry.

  James looked away, into the fire. “She found she was carrying a bairn. And when she went to the man, to make him take responsibility, he drove her from his manor house with threats. But he knew he couldn’t get away with his behavior. It wasn’t as if Catriona was a simple village lass, made to be despoiled by the gentry. She was from an old family, a good family, and he’d be made to pay the price.

  “So he and his friends got together. His best friend and his cousin and the man hired someone to kill her, to get rid of her with no questions asked. She never told me who’d done it, who’d taken her into a boat, out into the sea. The one thing she told me was that she’d fought, and he’d hit her in the head, knocking the sense from her, and thrown her into the sea. And she’d never seen again.”

  “How did she survive?”

  James shook his head. “Heaven only knows. The seals saved her, perhaps. Or the grace of God. Somehow she found herself clinging to a piece of wood, her vision gone, clinging until I found her. I brought her back to Glen Corrie and nursed her myself. I wouldn’t let any of the servants come near her. Even my own mother wasn’t allowed to touch her. She almost died then, caught in a fever and a terror so deep I feared for her mind as well as her body. And then one day the fever left her, as fast as it came upon her. And as soon as the banns could be read, we were married.” He leaned back against the wooden settle, looking older than his son had ever seen him.

  Malcolm didn’t want to ask the question. He loved his father. James MacLaren was a fair, good man who’d brought up his son to fear God and love nature, and a better father he couldn’t have asked for. But he had to know the truth.

  He leaned forward, took the bottle of fine Scotch whisky and brought it to his mouth, tipping the fiery stuff down his throat in a deep swallow. “When was I born?”

  There was no mistaking the sorrow and regret in James’s eyes. “You were a tough, fierce little laddie from the very beginning,” he said.

  “When?”

  James closed his eyes. “Five months after we were married.” He rose on unsteady feet. “Lad, you’re my son. My heir, my firstborn child. It matters not to me that some other man fathered you. I was the one who was there when you came from your mother’s body, red-faced and squalling. I was the one who taught you to ride and to hunt, who comforted you when you were sorrowed and laughed when you were joyful.”

  “Who was he?” Malcolm demanded in a harsh voice. “Who was the man who ordered my mother killed, along with her bastard?”

  “Malcolm, he’s the bastard, not you.”

  “Who was he? And who were the other men?”

  If James hadn’t been drunk, if he hadn’t been desperate with grief, he never would have told him. “Sir Duncan Spens,” James said finally. “His cousin Torquil. And his friend Wallace.”

  Malcolm drained the bottle of whisky, but the strong liquor only fanned the flames of his despair and fury. “You didn’t kill them,” he said flatly.

  “I promised your mother.”

  Malcolm looked the man he’d known as his father in the eye. “I made no such promise. They’ll pay for it.”

  “Do you think that’s what your mother would have wanted? She was gentle-hearted, forgiving. Do you think she’d want a blood vengeance?”

  Malcolm started for the door, the cold winter wind swirling around the large manor house that had housed him all his life. “It’s what I want,” he said, his voice flat and deadly. And he’d slammed the door behind him as he walked out into the bitter night air.

  And now he was here, on St. Columba, ready for the revenge that had eaten into his heart in the nine months since his mother had died. His father had watched him, with grief and regret, but none of his gentle words could turn him from his self-appointed task. He would make them pay for what they’d done to his mother. Stealing her sight, leaving her to live out her life in darkness. Had it been up to them, her life would have been forfeit. His as well.

  Things were moving at a steady pace. He’d found Collis MacDewar easily enough. The old man had once been the only servant Catriona’s parents could afford, and he’d been loyal and fond of the young mistress. His name had been one of the few his mother had mentioned when pressed to speak of her youth, and she’d done so with fondness in her voice. He would help him, Malcolm knew it full well, and instinct had taken him to the right man when he’d walked out of the sea after ditching his boat beyond the headland.

  And then he’d suffered his first crushing blow. Six weeks too late. The bastard who’d raped his mother and tried to send her to her death had died peacefully in his bed, his sins unrepented. There was no way he would ever look into his son’s eyes and see his nemesis.

  His friend was dead as well, long gone of apoplexy. But the third of that group, Torquil Spens, lived on. And one woman was at the center. Ailie Wallace Spens. Barren wife of his father. Daughter of his father’s friend. Beloved of the only remaining villain.

  He would use her, he would hurt her, if that was the only way to hurt the three who’d transgressed so grievously against his gentle mother. He would strike at Finlay

  Wallace from beyond the grave, despoiling his daughter. He would cuckold his dead father, and if he managed to give the old man’s wife the child he’d never had, so much the better. Catriona MacDugald’s blood would inherit Sir Duncan Spens’s fortune. And he would take from Torquil Spens the woman he lusted after.

  And then perhaps the dark hole of pain and rage in his heart would be filled.

  The Wallaces were among the wealthiest on the prosperous island of St. Columba. According to Collis, they’d come from the lowlands several generations back, their pockets filled with English gold. They’d built a sprawling house, one that owed more to ostentation than grace, and the family was large and greedy. The current generation boasted five sons, all hearty bullies, and the half-mad Ailie, Lady Spens.

  She hadn’t seemed half-mad, or half-witted to him, despite what Collis told him, despite what her family seemed to believe. There’d been intelligence and humor in her wide blue eyes, as if she knew exactly what she was doing when she talked of faeries and selkies and the like.

  He would have liked to see how deep those fancies went. In another life he could have, but now his need for vengeance overcame any gentler feelings. If she was half-mad, or fully mad, then perhaps that m
adness would protect her from the results of his quest. Perhaps not. He couldn’t afford to worry about her.

  His father, for so he couldn’t stop thinking of James MacLaren despite the truth, was prosperous and generous. Malcolm was his heir, fair or not, and he had already been given a large farm and four hundred acres of decent soil. He’d left his inheritance behind in the capable hands of his steward and come to St. Columba in search of his destiny.

  That destiny started with the Wallaces. With the five brothers and the sister. He’d move on to Torquil Spens in his own good time.

  The Wallace house loomed before him, and he eyed it with calm interest that was only partly feigned. It wasn’t as large as his father’s manor house, or as pretty. Its lack of grace suited him well.

  The household was in disarray. He could hear the loud voices raised in argument as he waited in the overdecorated anteroom that looked more as if it belonged in an Edinburgh brothel than a highland manor house. The servant who’d told him to wait had scurried away, and doubtless had forgotten about him in the uproar. He could make out a woman’s shrill, complaining tone, and the sound of a deep male voice, bullying and blustering. There was another voice, quieter, and he wondered who among them were his enemies. All of them, if their name was Wallace.

  The door to the room was flung open and a very pretty woman with the face of an angel, the expression of a shrew, and the belly of a woman eight months into pregnancy stormed into the room. “She’s being impossible, Angus. I told her she wasn’t to come down—someone will take her back to that wretched little hovel and keep her there. She’s an embarrassment—she ought to be put away.”

  The man who followed her into the room was largish, inclined to fat, with the small eyes and thick lips of a bully. “She’ll come down for tea if I have to beat her,” he announced. “She does it on purpose, Fiona, playing her little tricks. She’s smart enough when she tries—she can behave herself if she wants to. And by God I’ll make her want to.”

  Neither of them noticed Malcolm standing in the shadows, utterly still, watching them with no little interest. He knew perfectly well who they had to be discussing. The daft Ailie Wallace Spens.

  “She has no sympathy for my situation,” Fiona continued in a voice that was halfway between a screech and a whine. “Just because she’s barren...”

  “We don’t know that for certain,” Angus said. “Though it seems likely enough by now. Bring her down, Fiona. Torquil’s waiting to see her, and he might as well see her at her worst. It won’t come as any surprise—he’s seen her often enough when she was married to his cousin. If he’s going to cry off, he might as well do it now. Then we can see about putting her away someplace.”

  “Very well,” Fiona said, sulking, turning toward the door. At that moment her eyes caught sight of Malcolm, and they widened. “Who are you?”

  Angus followed her gaze, taking a belligerent step forward. “Aye, who are you, to be listening in on a family conversation?”

  Malcolm calmly considered how far he’d get if he shoved his fist against Angus Wallace’s mouth. It might provide some immediate satisfaction, but he was after something more complex, more complete.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said politely enough. “I’m Malcolm MacLaren, newly arrived on St. Columba. I was informed that you were the owner of a certain house I’m interested in leasing.”

  Angus’s eyes narrowed, but the light of greed shone forth. “What house is that?”

  “It’s a tumbledown place out by the seal rocks. It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been living there for a while, but it would suit me.”

  “The old MacDugald place? It’s been empty for almost thirty years. The old couple who lived there died out, soon after their only child drowned. Why would you be wanting that particular spot?”

  Malcolm managed a charming, diffident smile when he wanted to rip the man’s throat out. “I haven’t much money. It looked to be within my funds.”

  Angus’s smile was just as false as he promptly named a sum far too high for such a tumbledown place. That smile broadened when Malcolm agreed without argument, and his good humor was such that he invited him to tea. An invitation Malcolm accepted.

  The withdrawing room was decorated in puce silk, a color obviously designed to complement Lady Fiona’s complexion. It did no justice to Sir Angus’s high color, and it made the dark-clothed man who awaited them look sallow. Malcolm shuttered his expression as he looked at the other man, heard his greeting in that soft voice. “Torquil Spens,” Sir Angus introduced him. “MacLaren is a newcomer to the isle. He’s leasing the old MacDugald house from me.”

  “I didn’t hear of any newcomers,” Torquil said smoothly, not bothering to rise from his chair. “I usually make it my business to hear of any new arrivals.”

  “I’m here, am I not?” Malcolm said politely enough.

  “So you are. I wonder why?”

  “It’s a lovely island,” he said in a noncommittal voice.

  “But I wonder—”

  “Here she is,” Fiona announced in an aggrieved voice.

  Malcolm watched Torquil’s expression carefully as he rose to greet his intended, and he felt the exultation rush through him. He’d been right. Torquil was staring at the doorway with such avidity that it could only be called obsession, a lust of the body that would be his downfall.

  “For God’s sake, Ailie, are ye daft?” Angus thundered. “Why didn’t ye warn me, Fiona?”

  “I tried,” Lady Fiona said, flouncing past into the room, pausing long enough to give Malcolm an arch, assessing look before she sank onto a puce-colored settee. He was right; it had been chosen specifically for her coloring.

  He turned to follow the other men’s gaze, and he had to swallow a sudden burst of laughter. Ailie Spens stood there, Lady Spens, to be more accurate. She was barefoot, as she had been the day before, wearing a bright blue dress that was much too small for her long, strapping body. The hemline came midcalf, the bodice was pulled tight across her chest, accentuating her very pleasing curves. The sleeves had ripped when she’d pulled the outfit on, and her thick hair hung down to her waist, golden, lit with sunlight, so that a foolish man might want to sift his hands through its rich length.

  She was humming, something tuneless, swaying back and forth with eerie grace, unaware of him as he stood behind her bulky, glowering brother. The words were familiar, and he recognized them with a shock of misplaced amusement. She was singing one of Ophelia’s mad songs from Hamlet.

  He was more than conversant with Shakespeare. What his mother missed most, after not being able to look into the faces of her bairns, was the joy of reading. He gave that to her, reading anything she wished, from Shakespeare and Byron and Bobbie Burns to racy French novels that made her blush and laugh with pleasure. He knew Hamlet very well.

  And then her eyes met his, across the room, and her voice faltered in shock. “You wear your rue with a difference, lady,” he murmured.

  And then the shock disappeared. “The selkie!” she cried, an enchanting smile wreathing her face as she started toward him. “You’ve come to take me to the sea.”

  Chapter 3

  “You’re daft, woman,” Angus said angrily. “There’s no such thing as a selkie.”

  “So that’s who you are,” Torquil murmured at the same time, eyeing Malcolm with an arrested expression. “I’d forgotten about our so-called supernatural visitor. Remiss of me. Ailie, love, aren’t you going to greet your cousin?”

  Ailie didn’t even glance his way, skirting the bullish figure of her brother to come up to Malcolm. He could see deliberate wildness in her blue, blue eyes, and found himself thinking irrelevantly of bluebonnets on a hillside, waving free and careless in the breeze. “You aren’t my cousin, Torquil,” she said, looking into Malcolm’s eyes.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn’t dare, not with her brother and her fiance standing by. “Lady Spens,” he said, greeting her.

  The tension
in the room increased threefold. “How do you know my sister?” Sir Angus demanded in a belligerent voice.

  “Don’t be absurd, Angus,” Ailie answered for him. “Of course he knows my name. He’s come for me. To take me to the sea.”

  It was unnervingly close to the truth. Malcolm shook his head. “No, my lady,” he said politely enough. “I’ve just come for a bit of quiet.”

  She didn’t pout. He doubted she had such an artificial feminine expression in her makeup. Instead she shook her head. “If it’s quiet you want, you won’t find it here. Go back to the sea, selkie, before the seal hunters come after you.”

  “Ailie, you are without a doubt the most tiresome creature,” Fiona said loudly. “Don’t bother Mr. MacLaren—he has better things to do than listen to your half-witted ravings.”

  The smile Ailie gave her pregnant sister-in-law was full of cheerful good humor, and Malcolm wondered whether he imagined the trace of mischief in her eyes as she turned back to him. “Have you been well fed, Malcolm?” she asked. “Collis is an indifferent fisherman.”

  “I can take care of my own needs, my lady.”

  He was included in her mischief, he knew it. “I was wondering,” she said, putting a strong hand on his arm. “I know you eat only fish. But do you smash them against a rock and then bite their heads off, or do you swallow them while they’re still alive and wiggling?”

  “Oh, God,” Fiona mumbled in a strangled voice, and rushed from the room, her face pale.

  “You did that on purpose,” Angus said furiously, going after her.

  “Did what?” Ailie asked, patently mystified.

  Torquil came up beside her, taking her hand from Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm felt her sudden clinging in surprise, and then she released him, so quickly that he wondered whether he might have imagined it. “You mustn’t disturb Mr. MacLaren, dear Ailie,” Torquil said in an avuncular voice. “He’s a visitor, and he doesn’t understand how very special you are.”