Under an Enchantment: A Novella

by Anne Stuart

  He stifled the uneasy feeling that only intensified his desire for her. “I’ve never been on St. Columba in my life,” he said. “Four days is too short for a blood vengeance.”

  “Four minutes is long enough, in certain cases.” There was a trace of asperity in her voice, one that sounded far too matter-of-fact for a half-mad creature. She seemed to realize it, for she immediately gave him an enchanting smile. “You’ll turn my life upside down, Morag says.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  That stopped her. She cocked her head to one side, considering it. “Perhaps,” she said sweetly. “But not from a man who cares more for vengeance than for me. I’ve spent my life being a pawn for the men around me. I have no need to add another man to my life, to push me around and use me for their own gain. I don’t need you, selkie. I can dance alone.” She started away from him, but he caught her arm, turning her back to him with inexorable pressure so that she was close to him, so close he could smell the lavender in her hair, so close her bunched up skirts brushed against his thighs.

  “I’m to let you go?” he murmured. “Just like that?”

  There was no fear in her eyes. Alone in a deserted part of the woods, held by a man far stronger than she, Ailie Wallace Spens simply looked up at him expectantly. “Just like that,” she said, giving her arm a faint tug.

  He didn’t release her. “No,” he said simply.

  Still no fear. They widened, those deliberately vague blue eyes, and her lips parted as if she would argue with him.

  He didn’t want an argument. He wanted her mouth, and he took it, pulling her up against him as he kissed her.

  She tasted of sunshine and the meadows, of the sea breeze and lavender, she tasted of warmth and innocence and destiny, and her mouth opened beneath the pressure of his, as her strong hands reached up and caught his shoulders, not to push him away, but to steady herself.

  He kissed her fully, as a man kisses a woman, using his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, holding her against him as he took her. She trembled slightly, a shudder passing over her body, and then her arms slid around his neck and she kissed him back, an endearing, inexpert kiss that hinted of the passion hidden beneath her airy demeanor.

  He had to force himself to stop. He couldn’t push her down on the hillock and take her in broad daylight, much as his body and soul cried out for it. For one thing, Torquil would be hot after them, and while nothing would please Malcolm more than to be caught debauching Torquil’s beloved, he doubted he’d have enough time to do the deed before Torquil showed up. And if he were caught, there’d be no second chance.

  He still held her in his arms, pressed up tight against his aroused body, staring down at her. Her mouth was soft, red from his kisses, and her eyes were, for the first time, genuinely confused. “Is that the way selkies kiss?” she whispered.

  “It’s the way I kiss. What’s wrong with the lads of St. Columba that no one ever kissed you like that?”

  She shook her head. “I like it,” she said ingenuously. “Why don’t you do it again?” And she offered her mouth to him, closing her eyes.

  He could no more resist her than he could will his heart to stop beating. He kissed her harder this time, slanting his mouth across hers, and he felt the fire burning through his veins, the wanting that threatened to consume him.

  He groaned, not for the first time regretting the course he’d taken, and he reluctantly released her. “No more, lass.” Her eyes flew open again, and there was a definite disgruntled expression in them.

  “Why not?” she said. “Don’t you like to kiss me?”

  “I like it fine. But your fiance is about to show up here, and he might take exception to me showing you how to kiss.”

  She considered that for a moment, stepping back from him. “I’d forgotten,” she said.

  “Forgotten about Torquil?”

  “No. Forgotten you mean me harm. Don’t you?”

  He wanted to deny it. If he had any sense at all, he’d tell her bland, pretty lies, and if she were even twice as sharp as most women, she’d believe him. Women wanted to believe such things, and he knew the right words.

  But he didn’t want to use those words with her. So he said nothing at all, simply stood watching her, as he heard Torquil’s graceless approach through the woods.

  “There you are!” he said breathlessly, standing on the edge of the stone circle. “And MacLaren. I appreciate your looking out for her. I don’t know how she could have run off so swiftly, but she’s a dear, feckless creature.”

  Ailie’s mouth curved up in a secret smile. “Am I, Torquil?” she murmured.

  “Come on out of there,” Torquil said. “You know how superstitious people are about the Dance.”

  “You’re the only one here, Torquil,” she said serenely. “Are you superstitious?”

  “Not at all,” he said stoutly, eyeing the stone circle warily. “Come with me, Ailie. You need to get back to the dower house.” He was holding her shoes and stockings in his plump hands. Malcolm wanted to cross the stretch of grass and tear them away from him. He kept himself very still, wondering why Ailie didn’t go to him, wondering why Torquil didn’t move to claim her.

  “Back under lock and key?” Malcolm said lightly.

  Torquil’s expression might have daunted another man. “You’d best keep your nose out of other people’s business, MacLaren. You’re a stranger here, you don’t understand about Ailie. I have a responsibility to her. She’s not safe on her own. You saw how she ran off the moment my back was turned.”

  “Perhaps she had a reason to run.”

  Torquil took a belligerent step forward, to the edge of the stone circle. “It’s none of your concern. Go back to where you came from, and leave us alone.”

  The tension rose between then, hot and acrid, open warfare, and Malcolm knew a sudden elation. He was going to have his revenge, and he was going to take it with his own hands, wring it out of Torquil’s sturdy body.

  But Ailie was already moving past Malcolm. “He’s not ready to go back to the sea,” she said in a gentle voice. “And when he goes, I go with him. I’m to be a selkie as well, Torquil. Won’t that be splendid? I always wanted to be under an enchantment.”

  “Don’t be daft, Ailie!” Torquil snapped, still glaring into Malcolm’s equally hostile eyes.

  “Ah, but I am,” she said sweetly, taking Torquil’s arm and turning him away from the incipient confrontation that would have slaked Malcolm’s blood lust. “Why should that have changed?”

  “You’re not to go near him again,” he said, his body stiff with rage. “I don’t trust him. He means you harm.”

  Ailie simply moved toward the path. “You’re the second person to tell me that. I suppose I should pay heed.” She glanced over her shoulder at Malcolm, and the clarity in her blue eyes unsettled him almost as much as the taste of her mouth had. She smiled then, a brief, distant smile, before she moved away with Torquil.

  Malcolm said nothing, watching her as she disappeared down the pathway, Torquil’s sturdy figure by her side. They would lock her away once more. If it were up to her family, he wouldn’t see her again.

  Overhead the sun was bright, the thick fleecy clouds scudded by, and it took all Malcolm’s enormous self-control not to go after them.

  Her family would have nothing to say in the matter. She would come to him again, he knew it. He would call to her, and she would come, and damn all to the warnings of witches and family and whatever common sense she possessed. He would call, and she would come to him.

  But whose downfall would it be? Faerie-mad Lady Spens, with her dreams and her dancing, her Jacobite songs and her soft, kissable mouth? She was a widow, he would take nothing she hadn’t given before.

  Ah, but in his case it would be different. He’d bedded a number of willing women, to their mutual pleasure. But he’d never given more than the moment and his skill as a lover.

  Were he to lie with Ailie Spens, she would take more than his
seed. She was the enchanted creature, not he. She would steal his heart and soul, with her gentle eyes and wicked smile, and she would haunt him until the day he died.

  Surely there must be another way to punish Torquil. One that didn’t put his own soul in jeopardy.

  He would give himself one more day. One more day to claim his vengeance, one more day in the dangerous vicinity of Ailie Wallace Spens. And then he’d be gone, and she’d be released from her prison, to marry the fat old man who’d take her money and her body but let her dream her dreams.

  Twenty-four hours. And then he’d leave St. Columba to go back to where he belonged. Back to his real father, his family. Vengeance wouldn’t return his mother to him, or give her back her youth and her vision. Too much time had passed, and he’d been a grief-mad fool to think he could change things.

  He would leave. And do his best never to think of a half-mad lass named Ailie, who danced with the faeries and stirred his blood to fire.

  The night was warm and laden with mist. Ailie sat in the darkness, the pillows piled high behind her back, and considered her options.

  The door was locked. Fiona had seen to it, making certain Ailie was fully aware of the turn of the key. But they hadn’t seen fit to bar her windows.

  Even now she could hear them in the drawing room below. It always astonished her that they considered her deaf as well as witless, so loud did they discuss their plans for her. Torquil Spens would settle ten thousand pounds upon Angus in return for his help in securing her hand in marriage as soon as a decent period had passed. Not that Torquil would miss it. Once he wed Ailie, he would have control of her substantial inheritance. As well as control of her body.

  She rose from her bed, moving silently to the open window. The warmth of the day combined with the coolness of the land created a faerie mist that eddied and swirled around the dower house. It was past ten at night, and Ailie had no interest in sleeping. She wanted to find the selkie.

  He was calling to her, she knew it. She could feel it in her blood, her bones, all the dreams and fancies she’d nurtured were coming to fruition. She’d believed so long and so hard in that unseen world that she was being rewarded. Illusion made flesh, made glorious, enticing male flesh, and she was going to go to him.

  She knew what would happen, and she wasn’t afraid. He would take her, a demon lover and his earthly bride, he would take her body and give her a bairn, and in doing so he would turn her into a seal creature, as he was. There had been a reason that Sir Duncan could never claim his husbandly rights. She’d been kept, safe, untouched, for Malcolm MacLaren to walk from the sea and take her.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d climbed down the thick vines that covered the dower house. Granted, before it had been in broad daylight, and there’d been no cause for stealth. If Margery had caught her at it, she would have screeched at her, but there was little to risk but a bruised backside.

  Angus was drinking heavily, arguing with Fiona about how they’d spend the ten thousand pounds. Angus was for paying off a portion of the gaming debts he’d run up in Edinburgh, Fiona wanted to finance a trip to London and a season of gaiety as soon as she produced the bairn who'd swollen her body and roiled her indigestion. They didn’t hear a thing as Ailie scrambled down the vines as thick as her wrist, her bare feet clinging precariously, her flowing white nightrail billowing around her. If they were to glance outside, they might think it was a ghost come to haunt them.

  She rather liked that idea. The ghost of Sir Duncan’s first wife, the immensely wealthy Lady Barbara, who’d failed to produce an offspring despite Sir Duncan’s best efforts. It was her money that had ensured the prosperity of the Spens family. Her money that her brother and sister-in-law were wrangling over.

  Or perhaps they might think it was the ghost of Sir Duncan himself. She could do a fair imitation of his harrumphing voice, enough to terrorize the superstitious Fiona into running screaming up to her room.

  Tempting as the thought might be, she didn’t dare risk it. Angus was more hardheaded than his shrewish wife, and he’d be more likely to check out the apparition. He’d stop her from going to the selkie, and she didn’t think she could bear that.

  He was leaving. She knew that as well, knew in her blood and bones. He was leaving, and if she didn’t go to him, he’d leave her behind.

  It was time, past time, for her final reckless act. She dropped the last few feet to the ground, leaning for a moment against the thick stone of the dower house. She had loved St. Columba, the hills, the oceans, old Morag, and the mystery of the Seal Dance. She had even loved her family, and had a sneaking fondness for Torquil.

  But she wanted to dance with the faeries. Swim with the seals. To live a life she’d never lived before. And she was ready to take any risk to claim it.

  She knew where she’d find him. In the midst of the enchanted faerie circle, where she’d last seen him. He’d come back there, through the mist-shrouded moonlight; he would come to her, wait for her, through the long night. And if she failed him, he would walk into the ocean without her, leaving her to harsh mortal hands.

  She wanted immortality. She wanted freedom and beauty and glory and dreams.

  But most of all, she wanted Malcolm.

  There was no sign of Morag’s spirit when she reached the enchanted knoll. No sign of Malcolm as well. The moss-covered hillock within the circle of stones was deserted, silent, bewitched. She sank down on the softness, her white nightrail flowing around her, feeling the damp of the mist settle on her skin. She would look like a ghost. Perhaps she already was one. Perhaps she’d followed him into the sea and drowned there, as poor Catriona MacDugald had more than thirty years ago, and she was doomed to wander the hills of St. Columba, looking for the demon lover who lured her to her doom.

  She considered the notion, well pleased with the high-flown romance of it. She considered summoning forth a few tragic tears, then thought better of it. She wasn’t cold, but the dampness reached into her bones, and she shivered. Wanting a shawl to wrap around her, wanting a blanket to lie on. Wanting a demon lover to come to her.

  She heard him in the forest, moving closer. She knew his footsteps, sure enough on land, even though he must be unused to walking on solid ground. He was coming to her, though he wouldn’t know she was waiting.

  She saw him on the edge of the clearing, wreathed in mist. His long black hair flowed loose around his shoulders, his eyes were dark and intent, but when he saw her in the midst of the stones, he stopped, coming no farther.

  “You’re not afraid of the stones, are you, selkie?” she asked, her voice light and carrying on the mist. “You should recognize them. They were seal people, frozen into stone in the midst of a dance. They mean us no harm.”

  Still he didn’t move, and she had the sudden fear that he would turn and leave her. She could feel the warring in his soul, the fight that she didn’t want him to win. She rose to her knees, wraithlike in the swirling fog, and held out her hands to him.

  “Come to me, selkie,” she whispered, so softly he wouldn’t be able to hear.

  But he moved, slowly forward, as if impelled by a force outside himself. He moved through the circle of stone; moved to stand in front of her, and he was immensely tall and dark, a danger to her heart and soul.

  “Go home, Ailie,” he said in a rough voice. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You came for me,” she said. “You called me. Why else would we both be here?”

  “Go home, Ailie,” he said again. “You were right, I mean you harm. For blood vengeance, for no fault of yours. Run away from me, m’eudail”

  “M’eudail,” she breathed. “You love me.” She took his hands in hers. “Make me a selkie, beloved. Enchant me.” And she pressed his hand against her breast, feeling his start of shock. His hand cupped her, he sank down to his knees in front of her, and the faerie mist settled down around them like a fleecy blanket, a bridal veil, a benediction.

  And Ailie knew that she would finally know tru
e magic this night. And madness as well.

  Chapter 5

  She looked like a ghost. A wraith, in her white nightrail with the mist surrounding her, kneeling in the center of the stone ring. Her breast was soft beneath his hand, but the tip hardened against his palm, and her blue eyes clouded in wonder and a longing that he’d have to be mad to deny.

  Perhaps he was mad, as mad as she was, to be kneeling in the soft grass in the midst of a faerie ring, ready to take a lass who ought to be left in peace. He couldn’t tell himself it was revenge, or anger, or anything but a longing for her, stronger than the rage and grief that had filled him, stronger than his failed mission.

  He wasn’t going to avenge his mother. He wasn’t going to punish Torquil Spens and his cohorts. He was going to make love to the girl kneeling in front of him, and he was going to remember her every day of his life.

  If he had any decency at all, he’d let her be. But right then he was a stranger to decency, to honor. He lifted his hands and threaded them through her thick fall of golden hair, pushing it away from her face, telling himself he’d kiss her, just kiss her, and then he’d send her away. But her mouth was so sweet beneath his, as her body swayed against him, and he could feel the softness of her breasts against his open shirt, and he wanted to feel the warmth of her flesh against his, skin to skin, heat to heat.

  Her lips were soft. It didn’t take much pressure to make her open her mouth, and he used his tongue, shocking her. He didn’t want to think about who had kissed her before. Who had been the first to take her body. All he could think about was how much he wanted her, needed her. Needed to lie with her in the grass with the sweet scent of crushed heather beneath them.

  He took her hand in his, drawing it down his body, placing it on him, half hoping he’d shock her into running away. Instead she touched him with delicacy and wonder, her fingertips tracing his swollen length until he had to bite back a groan of need that threatened to shake him apart. He forced himself to endure the pleasure of it, until he could stand no more, pulling her hand away.