by King, Susan
"But when I was small, I thought it true. Robert said that our mother sang sweetly, which was proof of her fairy magic."
"Then you have your mother's voice."
She shrugged. "I never knew her. But I did come here when I was young, hoping to hear her. Robert laughed at me when he found out." She looked down, feeling a twinge of that old hurt. "I never heard a sound but the birds and the wind, and yet...." She felt a little embarrassed, but went on. "I used to imagine that her voice was in the wind, singing for me." A blush heated her cheeks; she had never spoken to anyone of her wish to hear her mother's voice out of the fairy hill.
"You wanted some part of your mother—even if it was only the sound of her voice."
She nodded, and tears stung her eyes, startling her. She blinked them away. Surprised that she had told a childhood secret to Duncan, she realized that she felt deeply at ease with him. She knew, somehow, that he would guard her inner thoughts.
"If your mother were in this fairy hill, she would be happy to know that you sing as well as any of her kind."
"Do you think so?"
"I do," he said. "As well or better than any of her kind."
Elspeth leaned forward to stop his mouth at the boast. He took her hand, laughing softly. "Would you silence me?" he teased. "Surely I may say that much."
"They are old beliefs, and perhaps foolish. I have never seen a fairy, in truth."
He brushed a strand of curling hair away from her brow. "Have you not?" he asked. In the deep light, his eyes were the dark blue of the night sky.
Suddenly she remembered her first sight of Duncan Macrae. She had seen him—or a vision of him—riding the crest of a hill. He had resembled one of the daoine sìth. Now, in the shadows, he looked like a magical king, tall and strong and darkly beautiful.
The haunting memory of the other vision glimmered suddenly. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the awful image to be gone. She did not want to see it, not here. Not now.
Keeping her hand tucked in the warm cocoon of his fingers, Duncan looked toward the castle, where tiny sparks of torchlight glowed. He tugged gently on her hand and rose to his feet, pulling her up. His other arm came around her back. "Come, Elspeth. I will take you back to Glenran."
Elspeth looked up. Deep inside, in that instant, some vulnerable center opened in her. He stood over her, black cloak whipping like the spread of dark wings, his eyes a match to the night. She stared up, her gaze as open as a flower.
He tipped her chin up with a finger. Shivers coursed through her body. She stood there, not powerless to stop him, only unwilling; she suddenly wanted his touch, his closeness. Her own need held her there. The small voice that might have cautioned her to stay away from this man was silent.
He lowered his head. Hesitantly she moved forward. He touched his lips to hers. His eyelids drifted shut and he touched his mouth to hers again, a warm and gentle pressure. Sliding an arm around his neck, she felt his hair, smooth and cool, stream through her fingers. Her heartbeat seemed to expand, drumming through her blood, through her belly, into her knees.
When his tongue etched a delicate path along her upper lip, she arched her throat, her small gasp lost beneath the cover of his mouth. Each kiss became deeper and fuller than the last, heady and sweet. She drank them in like fine subtle wine.
Drawing a breath, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the rapid pound of his heart against her breasts. He touched his lips to her cheek, to the underside of her jaw, tracing a gentle path. The sensation curled through her entire body.
His fingertips lighted on the bare skin of her throat, moving softly downward, tracing gentle arcs as the heel of his hand brushed the top of her breast. She shuddered, pressing forward, feeling uncertain, wanting more.
He kissed her again. She threaded her fingers into his hair, exploring, and found the firm shape of his ear, the angle of his jaw, the strength of his shoulders. She kept her eyes closed and only felt, keenly and without thought, the warm, moist comfort of his lips; the feather touches over her throat, her jaw, in her hair; the harsh of his beard against her cheek.
"Elspeth," he murmured, his breath soft on her brow. "I had not thought that this would happen."
"Nor did I," she said, trying to pull her ragged thoughts into coherence. Her heart surged, fear overcoming wonder. "Leave now, Duncan. Please. Leave me, leave the Highlands."
He took her face in his hands. She felt the pulse of his heart in his fingertips. "Elspeth Fraser," he said softly. "Deal truthfully with me."
She nodded slowly.
"That day at the stream—"
"Hush you," she said. Her fingers trembled as she touched them to his cheek. A swoop of dread rushed through her. "Do not speak of that."
"Listen to me. Was that vision a ruse to send me away? Surely you knew that I was coming here."
She hesitated, and took her hand from his face. Her breath slowed, and she set her chin high. "It was a vision," she said.
He sighed. "I want to know what you saw." He moved his hand to her arm.
She wanted very much to tell him, to purge the raw, hurtful image that burned like a poison in her brain. But she was afraid, as if speaking of it would engrave the vision indelibly into his future and make it irreversibly real.
She shook her head. "I will not tell you."
Then, swift and sure, his hand grasped the back of her head, his fingers clutching into her thick hair, pulling back her head, not hurting her, but firm, as if he controlled a wave of anger.
"You spoke of death, and a raven. You have warned me to leave or face tragedy. I have listened to it all. And now I want the truth from you."
"Leave me be on this," she whispered.
"I cannot. Speak, and I will listen, and the thing will be done between us. Seers, in my experience, are usually eager to spread their wisdom. You, however, are not."
"In your experience?"
"I have heard something of my future, from a crone who lived in Kintail when I was a boy," he said. "None of it ever frightened me. None of it has ever happened. Now speak."
"What did she tell you?"
He huffed out a breath of exasperation and released her hair. "Chaff and rubbish. I have forgotten."
She looked away. "Perhaps I have, too."
"You have not." He looked at her thoughtfully. "At the stream, that day, you looked at me as if—" he stopped.
Elspeth glanced up at him. "As if what?" she asked.
His fingers traced a gentle line along her jaw. Her knees gave slightly, and her breath quickened.
"You looked at me as if you loved me beyond any other," he said. "As if your heart were mine alone. I want to know why. Tell me what you saw."
Her heart seemed to tumble to her toes and bound back up again. She wanted to reach out to him, but squeezed her fingers tight against her sides.
"What was it, Elspeth Fraser?" His voice was deep, compelling.
"You will face the heading block if you stay here. That is what I saw for you." The words tumbled out on a half-sob, a poor gift to return for his lush kisses, for his gentle touch.
He stared at her. A wind lifted at his hair, but he stood still as granite.
"Leave here," she said wearily. "Go to Dulsie, or go to Edinburgh, but leave this place."
"Whatever you saw, girl, it will not affect me, because I do not believe it."
She sighed and drew her plaid around her, then slowly walked away from him, down the slope toward Glenran.
She had felt something between them, just as he had, ever since that first moment at the stream. Her life was fastening to his, inexorably, like a weaving of silver threads. Each word, each look, each touch was another filament in the bond. Aware that it was happening, she felt powerless against its progress.
And yet she feared now that such a bond would destroy them both. She walked on, without looking back.
Chapter 9
O winna ye pity me, fair maid?
O winna ye pity me?
&nb
sp; O winna ye pity my poor steed,
Stands trembling at yon tree?
~"The Broom of Cowdenknows"
"Here, Lasair, dip in the water," Duncan said patiently. "The cold will do you good. Stay there, now," he said, and pushed down on his horse's leg when Lasair pulled his tender hoof out of the cold, shallow burn.
Duncan sighed loudly. "Try to keep in the water for at least a moment, my friend. I have no remedy but this for you." The horse cocked one ear in confusion and snorted testily, but complied. Patting Lasair's shoulder, Duncan urged the horse's nose downward for a drink.
Having spent the morning composing a carefully worded letter to the chief of the MacDonalds, which he had then presented to Robert Gordon, Duncan had witnessed Robert's signature. After Hugh had summoned a running gillie to deliver the letter to the MacDonalds, Duncan had saddled Lasair and had ridden out alone.
A hard gallop over moorland had cleared his mind and lightened his mood, but before long his horse had caught a stone in the soft inner part of the hoof. The bruised area, Duncan knew, had to be quite painful. The limping horse would have to be led back to Glenran.
"There, mo caraid, my friend, the water helps, I think," he murmured. He realized then that he had spoken aloud in Gaelic, as easily and naturally as he once had as a child, with no careful thought preceding the words. He smiled ruefully, recalling how Alasdair Fraser had urged him to allow the Highland part of his character greater freedom.
Briefly he imagined Alasdair at Dulsie Castle, seated around the table in the hall with Duncan's own family. Mairi, who was Duncan's sister and Alasdair's wife, would be there with their children, as would his grandmother and his young sister Kirsty. Three years had passed since he had seen Mairi, who had once accompanied Alasdair on a visit to Edinburgh. Kirsty had been little more than a babe, willful and pretty, when he had left; he doubted she much remembered him now.
He had not seen his grandmother since the day he had left Dulsie without her blessing. He sighed again, remembering how much he had loved her as a boy. Now he wondered how much she had aged, and if her health had withstood the years; and he wondered if she was still so very angry with him.
Smoothing a hand over Lasair's glossy black withers, he waited a few minutes longer while the horse's hoof soaked. Then he picked up the reins and tugged gently to lead the horse out of the shallow stream and slowly up the shoulder of a broad hill.
Reaching the top, he saw a wide view of the great loch off to the east, its surface gleaming like dull pewter beneath the overcast sky. Pushing back the hair that whipped over his brow, Duncan turned for Glenran, barely visible in the far distance.
Then he stopped, laying a hand on the horse's neck, and swore softly. On the moor below, he saw a cluster of Highlanders on horseback. Narrowing his eyes, keeping still, he watched cautiously, wondering if these men could be MacDonalds.
Seven or eight men, plaided and dirked, rode slowly over the rough moorland, past a fringe of birchwood. Duncan could see the glint of weapons at the Highlanders' waists. Their bronze-trimmed targe shields gleamed in the thin light. The mix of tartan patterns that decorated their plaids made it difficult to guess their clan. These were not any Frasers that he had seen, though they rode, armed and bold, through Fraser territory in clear daylight.
At that moment, a lone Highlander emerged from the birchwood at the edge of the moor. Clothed in dark green and blue, the Highlander was clearly a Glenran Fraser. One fat braid glimmered like soft copper.
"Dhia!" Duncan swore. He watched as the armed riders moved toward Elspeth. Soon she was surrounded, her head a bright flash in the midst of the garrons and the tartaned plaids.
Duncan dropped the reins and ran down the slope, one hand
gripping the dirk sheathed at his waist. His black cloak beat out in the wind behind him as he descended the slope in leaps. Bounding with fluid strength over the swells and dips in the ground, still unseen by the group not far ahead of him now, he came to a rocky outcrop and hunkered down out of sight.
Crouched behind a boulder, he studied the distance and the number of men, judging the best angle for his approach. Eight mounted Highlanders circled around Elspeth. One of them spoke to her. She answered, standing very still, her back to Duncan.
He knew now that these men were not Ruari MacDonald and his brothers, whom he had seen that first day at the stream. None of the men wore bonnets, and without knowing their plant badge, he could not identify their clan easily.
Elspeth spoke, pointing and shaking her head. One of the riders reached out an arm to her as if to lift her to his horse, but she shook her head again and stepped back. The man reached forward again.
Anger roiled in his gut. Duncan stepped forward. His approach would be no secret across the open moor. He would have to hope that his sudden appearance would startle these men into riding away. If not, then he would have to fight his way free. Either way, he would do his best to protect the girl.
He stalked firmly toward them with deliberate footfalls, his gaze direct and unafraid. Never show fear to an enemy, his father had once told him; he had remembered it all his life, had made it a part of everything he did. Even the law used unpredictability as a defensive element. With his hand openly resting on his dirk, he stepped boldly into the circle.
"Greetings," he said in Gaelic.
Surprised gazes swiveled to meet his. Duncan lifted a hand in casual salute, the other resting tense and ready on the dirk. Elspeth stared at him. Cocking his head toward her, he beckoned with authority, his glance wary. She walked toward him.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed. Without answering, he wrapped his fingers around her elbow and pulled her to his side. One of the Highlanders dismounted. Duncan tensed and began to back slowly toward the birchwood.
The man was tall and very thin, with black hair and a wide mustache that hid his mouth. He approached Elspeth and Duncan, frowning, his large hand on his own dirk.
"Shall we kill this one for you, Elspeth?" he asked.
Duncan blinked in surprise and looked down at her. She slid a quick glance at him and smiled. A deep dimple came and went in her cheek. "Leave him be," she said. "He is the queen's own long-robe."
"Ah," the Highlander said. "You would be Macrae, then."
"I am," Duncan said cautiously. The Highlander held out a hand for him to grasp, and after a moment Duncan took it. The man was very young, no more than twenty, with sharp green eyes and a serious manner.
"I am Diarmid Fraser," he said. "We are the MacShimi's tail, just come from Lovat Castle at his request."
A muscle pumped in Duncan's cheek, and a slow flush crept up his neck. Elspeth turned to beam at him, obviously enjoying his discomfiture.
He had tried to rescue her from a pack of Frasers. Damn the whole lot of them, he thought sourly; there are far too many to count. If any clan needed a bond of caution to keep them at home, it had to be the Frasers. He was more determined than ever to get the cursed paper signed and get out of Glenran.
"These are more of my cousins," Elspeth said. "Diarmid you have met. Over there are David, Aindreas, Tomas, Domhnall, Iain, James and Johnnie."
Duncan nodded to each one. "You form your chief's tail?"
"We do," Diarmid answered. "We are his bodyguard at Lovat, and ride with him whenever he needs us. He sent word a few days ago, asking us to ride patrol around Fraser territory."
"The patrols are needed to protect our people from the MacDonalds," Elspeth said.
"That clan must be anxious to harass you, to ride out on summer raids," Diarmid said.
"The nights are not nearly dark enough yet for good raiding," Duncan said. "Late autumn or winter nights are always best. They take a chance raiding in this season, even in late summer." He saw Elspeth glance at him in surprise; she obviously did not expect a lawyer to know much about raiding.
"They do," Diarmid agreed. "Ruari MacDonald and his brothers can be sly and mean, but they have never been blessed with wits." Diarmid turned to Els
peth. "Come with us to Glenran." He held out his hand, but Elspeth shook her head.
"I will not, Diarmid," she said. "I have already told you so." Duncan realized with chagrin that a similar conversation had brought him hurtling to her rescue.
"It is dangerous for you to be out here alone," Diarmid said. "There could be MacDonald scouts in this area."
"Hah! They would not dare to set foot on our land in daylight," she said. "I have promised to visit a friend. I will be safe, Diarmid. You go on."
Her cousin sighed. "Then the long-robe will see you safely where you mean to go." He lifted a brow at Duncan, who nodded.
Diarmid bid them farewell and mounted his horse, then saluted them with a wave of his hand. The Frasers rode away, hoofbeats pounding over the moor.
Elspeth turned and walked past Duncan without a word or a glance, heading up the slope toward his waiting horse. He was reminded of the cool manner in which she had walked away from him the evening before. He caught up to her easily.
"We cannot ride—" he began.
"I walk more than I ride," she said. "Perhaps it is different in the south-country." She stomped ahead.
"We cannot ride," he repeated in a clipped manner, pausing by the horse, "because my horse has gone lame. I will not lead him over a long distance. I would prefer to lead him back to Glenran before I escort you. How far do you need to go?"
She turned, her scowl changing to an expression of concern. Coming back toward him, she stroked the horse's shoulder. "Which hoof?" she asked. He told her, and she bent to gently lift the front left hoof, examining the bruise carefully.
"Sasunnach horses are not suited to the Highlands," she said.
"This is not an English horse," he said, irritated by her criticism, and her icy tone. His temper had been tested today by her half-brother, and tested sorely by Elspeth yesterday. She had thrown a door into his face, had insulted him, and had riled his temper; and last night she had enchanted him, and had kissed him quite fervently. Now he had no patience for her changeable temperament.
