Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  Sweeping out the mews. Scrubbing the latrines. Chasing the chickens out of the moat. Weeding the moat. Unstopping the moat. Combing their hair.

  It was Marsali’s turn for judgment next. She sat slumped at the opposite end of the table, face buried in her folded arms, the emotional turmoil of the past two days having taken its toll on even her irrepressible wellspring of exuberance. Bringing out the best in the chieftain wasn’t proving as easy as she’d hoped.

  The man derived diabolical glee from spoiling everyone’s fun.

  The first thing this morning he had called a “drill” in the courtyard, assembling his ragged clan for a pitiless inspection. When Marsali failed to appear, he marched straight to the scullery, where, in defiance of his orders, she had ensconced herself, and dragged her out of her cozy pallet by the fire. Then he preceded to soak her head under the pump while everyone watched in horror.

  “You were a very bad girl last night,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t think I’m unaware of what you and Effie were doing down in the root cellar into the wee hours.”

  Marsali could only sputter in indignation and shake herself off like a wet cat. She was too woozy from sampling the strawberry wine she and Effie had made months ago in the cellar to defend herself.

  Twenty minutes after the drill, Duncan and Cook had faced off in the kitchen. Cook openly defied the chieftain by tearing up his suggested menus and tossing them in the fire. Duncan retaliated by confiscating her rolling pin for the day.

  No one had breakfast. No one was happy.

  “The matter of Marsali Hay is to be decided next,” he said in a low, precise voice.

  She cranked up her chin an inch and shot him a suspicious look across the ale tankards littering the table. His deep baritone voice reverberated in her groggy head like a drum roll.

  “I’ve been giving the matter of your future great thought,” he said with a malevolent smile.

  Which actually was an understatement. He had barely slept a blessed wink in two whole days, what with worrying about ghosts, Jacobite spies, Sarah’s imminent arrival. And Marsali Hay.

  She rubbed her nose. “Go on. The suspense is killing me.”

  “I considered a convent—”

  She pretended to gasp. “Oh, no. Anything but that.”

  “But out of pity for the nuns, I decided against it.”

  “A damned good thing too,” she said with such vehemence that she set off a fresh wave of pounding agony in her skull.

  “A wee drop too much last night,” Duncan said in a dry voice. “It will be your last binge, then. You’ll remember we discussed finding a husband for you? Apparently the search is more urgent than I suspected.”

  Marsali cradled her head in her hands as gingerly as if it were a cracked egg. “Oh, fine, my lord. Whatever you say. Who is it going to be?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it will be a man important enough to honor your father’s position and loyalty to the clan.” He leaned forward on his elbows, struck by a bolt of inspiration. “It will be whomever I choose as my successor: I think your father would be pleased to see you the chieftain’s bride.”

  Marsali stared at him in shocked disbelief. “You’re going to marry me to someone in the castle?”

  Almost in unison, they glanced around at the few men loitering in the hall. At Angus, the ancient groom, snoring with his chin tucked into his flowing beard. At Lachlan, playing tiddlywinks with a stale crust of bread and a fossilized pea. At Johnnie, studying a spider crawling across the table as if it were the most fascinating sight in the world.

  Duncan’s gaze met hers, conceding the point. “All right. The search might take a little effort.”

  Marsali sighed, her head sinking back onto the pillow of her arms. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s useless. Robert was the best in the bunch, and my father didn’t really care for him. There’s no one else.”

  “Within the castle boundaries, perhaps,” Duncan was forced to agree, rising from the table. “But take heart, lass. There has to be a suitable husband for you somewhere in Scotland.”

  Marsali stiffened, watching him pace behind her chair like a caged lion. She did not like the steely resolve in his eyes at all. “I doubt it, my lord.”

  “Stand up, lass,” Duncan said briskly, beckoning her from the chair.

  She cast an uneasy look at Johnnie. “What for?”

  “Just do as I ask.”

  As she reluctantly obeyed, he subjected her to a long silent scrutiny, his face impassive as marble. At first Marsali was amused; she even liked the attention, putting one hand on her hip and performing an impudent pirouette around her chair.

  “Hold still,” Duncan snapped.

  Her grin faded. The piercing blue of his gaze as it bored into hers was potent enough to start her poor head pounding all over again. Suddenly she was aware of her still-damp hair, the straw on her skirts, the sheer size of the man intimidating her with his unspoken criticism.

  He motioned in distaste to the pink blotches on her bodice. “Pray God, what are those from?”

  “Probably strawberries,” she answered, unconcerned. “They’ll fade in time.”

  Duncan’s upper lip curled at one corner. “ ‘Probably strawberries. They’ll fade in time.’ Marsali, it is not acceptable behavior to pass your evenings getting drunk in the root cellar.”

  She frowned. “I wasn’t getting drunk on purpose. I was sampling the wine for Effie to sell at the fair, and if I got drunk it was only because we couldn’t get the flavor right the first few times. There’s a world of difference between getting drunk on purpose and by accident, as I see it.”

  “I see it that way too, lass,” Lachlan said, interrupting his game of tiddlywinks to offer his support.

  “Well, I don’t,” Duncan said in a voice that put an end to the debate. “And along with the midnight rides and the ambushes on the moor, it has to stop. A man hardly wants to marry a woman who can drink him under the table. Now hold out your chest, Marsali.”

  She flushed indignantly, holding her chin in the air. No one had criticized the state of her bosom before. Come to think of it, no one had noticed she even had one. The chieftain was the only man in the castle aware of her femininity, and he’d made her aware of it too.

  “I am holding it out, my lord.”

  “Aye,” Johnnie agreed somberly. “ ’Tis as far as I’ve ever seen it go.”

  Lachlan directed an admonishing frown at Duncan. “ ’Tisn’t fair to expect it to go any farther, my lord. There are some things decided by nature that even a chieftain canna change.”

  “If I want anyone else’s opinion, I will ask for it,” Duncan said. His face devoid of expression, he lowered his gaze from Marsali’s bright pink face to the pistol she wore in an embroidered girdle at her waist. Amazing that the girl could look so appealing and bedraggled at the same time. She was like the castle kitten: fey, adorable, protected by all, yet owned by none despite the affection she garnered.

  “Trade the gun for a fan,” he said flatly.

  “A fan?” Her eyes flashed with temper; this was becoming a personal attack. “And how am I supposed to shoot game with a fan? Or crack open a hazelnut?”

  “Not to mention defendin’ herself,” Johnnie said in concern.

  Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Her husband will defend her. That is, after all, the whole point.”

  Angus, waking up to all the fuss, gave a dry chuckle. “Aye, but will he spear her fish and crack her hazelnuts, my lord?”

  “I don’t really care,” Duncan said in exasperation. “If he could summon the energy, perhaps he will.”

  Marsali crossed her arms over her chest, her expression volatile and forbidding. “Papa bought me this pistol.”

  “I thought ye said it belonged to yer brother,” Lachlan began, only to stammer to a halt at the warning gleam in her eye.

  “Papa gave it to me,” she insisted, nudging the chair between herself and Duncan with her toe.

  Duncan lea
ned down to look into her face. “It makes you look like a little brigand,” he said with intimidating softness. “Get rid of it. The damn thing isn’t even loaded.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He was getting angry now. “I tried to shoot the portcullis open, don’t you remember? The damn gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Well, I loaded it myself last night in the root cellar.”

  Duncan shuddered at the thought of her drunk and loading a pistol. “Give me the gun, Marsali.”

  “But…”

  Her voice died off as the heavy door behind them banged open, the wooden planks shuddering in their iron braces: Effie had returned, her thin face flushed with excitement, her mop cap askew. Drawing a deep breath, she marched over to the table and bobbed Duncan such a deep curtsy that her spectacles slid to the end of her nose. Before she had straightened, a pair of pink and white piglets trotted up to the table, whiskery snouts quivering in the ever-hopeful search of a snack.

  “I thought I banished those damned porkers to the castle yard,” Duncan said, looking around in irritation. “Johnnie, have Cook pen them up and find a recipe for—”

  “Ye canna put the twins on the menu,” Effie said in horror, grabbing Marsali’s hand as if the very possibility made her feel faint.

  “The twins?” Duncan said.

  “Alan and Ailis,” Marsali explained, kneeling to scratch the pair’s bristly ears.

  “Pigs belong outside,” Duncan said. “And you, Effie, are supposed to be milking the cows.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Effie said breathlessly. “I just wanted to ask if Marsali could help me. There’s no one who can milk a cow like Marsali. It’s a special talent she has.”

  Marsali rose, frowning in confusion. “I hate milking cows, Effie. What are you talking about?”

  Effie gave her a meaningful little nudge. “Don’t be modest. Everyone in the clan is always marveling how good you are at things like milking cows… riding horses… catching lobsters.”

  The blank look fled Marsali’s face, replaced by a flicker of comprehension that Duncan caught but did not immediately understand. In fact, there wasn’t much he seemed to understand these days.

  “Cook says it’s time to milk the cows, Marsali,” Effie said emphatically.

  And then, without waiting for permission, Marsali swept around Duncan and walked with Effie to the door, the piglets following. “You’re not to sample any more strawberry wine, Marsali,” he called to her receding figure. “And I will expect you to get rid of that gun before supper.”

  He stared at the door, ignoring the niggle of unease in the back of his mind that told him something devious was brewing in the furtive looks between the two girls, their conversation hiding a secret code. But after the scene at the water pump with Marsali that morning, he thought it unlikely she would cause him grief again. He’d frightened her. Aye, the girl was finally coming to respect him. He decided she wouldn’t cause him half as much trouble as he’d feared.

  He returned slowly to his chair, distracted by the swags of cobwebs that festooned the MacElgin coat of arms hanging crookedly above the massive fireplace. Talk about trouble. How in God’s name was he to make the castle presentable for Sarah’s arrival in less than a fortnight? He’d done everything to discourage her from coming except tell her the truth.

  They said that the truth hurt. In this case it was going to kill.

  He hadn’t exactly lied to Sarah, but he hadn’t been open about the details of his dubious beginnings either. He cringed now at the white lies he’d allowed her to believe, never dreaming he would have to confront his past again at the Crown’s bequest. Never dreaming that Sarah would actually make the daunting trek across the Highlands and invite herself to his familial home.

  To Sarah he had been a military hero from the hour of his birth, the beloved heir of a revered Highland chieftain. No hint of scandal, murder, abuse to taint his sainted name. Why would he destroy himself by confessing sins he had spent years trying to forget? Why would he acknowledge the past when he’d hoped it was long buried? God above, why hadn’t he told the whole ugly truth when he’d had the chance?

  Sarah, the daughter of an English earl, was in for a shock.

  She expected a fairy-tale medieval castle in the clouds with graceful turrets rising against gentle hills of eternally blooming heather. She expected bonny red-cheeked village children to hand her bouquets of wildflowers in shy welcome, as befitting the wife of the duke he would soon become.

  She would expect to dine nightly on fresh succulent venison his clansmen caught in her honor, the tasty trout from the sparkling waters of his loch.

  She would expect a staff of loyal servants to fight for the privilege of serving her.

  And what would she find instead?

  A crumbling pile of rocks encircled by a chicken-infested moat, which, if she survived being flattened by the drawbridge, she would cross only to dodge a fatal barrage of arrows shot courtesy of the clan’s children.

  She would then choke down a supper of stringy poultry plunked down before her by a handful of belligerent Highlanders. A well-meaning clansman might whack her on the back if she turned blue at the table, or he might not, depending on how drunk he was.

  If she was lucky, no one would drop a frog down her dress at the table, or roll her around the courtyard in a herring barrel. If she made it that far and did not run shrieking from the castle, she would probably be awakened during the night by the resident ghost looking for the chamberpot.

  And she would realize that her betrothed was detested by the clan he had led her to believe revered him.

  “I’m doomed.” He spoke the thought aloud, his attention returning to the two men still seated at the table.

  They were watching him closely. Too closely. He sat forward, the skin of his nape crawling. Trouble was brewing. They knew something.

  “What is it?” he demanded, glancing from one to the other.

  Angus gave him an evil grin.

  “What is what, my lord?” Johnnie asked innocently.

  Duncan’s face darkened as he scanned the suddenly deserted hall. “Where did Lachlan go? I wasn’t finished assigning him his duties on the watch.”

  “He’s gone off, my lord,” Johnnie said.

  “Gone off? To do what? Milk a—”

  Milk a cow. Ride a horse. Catch lobsters.

  Duncan rose slowly from his chair, hovering over the two men like a hammer about to fall. Lobsters: lobsterbacks. It was ludicrously obvious. While he sat on his behind bemoaning his fate, the fairy princess was leading her band of misfits on another ambush. Only this time her victim would be a genuine, Highland-hating English captain of dragoons who would jump at the chance to retaliate.

  “That’s it.” He pushed his chair aside, his voice clipped and furious. “I can’t believe I felt sorry for her. I’m marrying her off to the first unlucky bastard who’ll take her. Angus, have the horses saddled. Johnnie, off your duff. You’re helping me.”

  He strode from the table, his spurred boots ringing on the sunken flagstones. Johnnie hoisted up his trews and hurried after him. In the aftermath of Duncan’s outburst there was a stretch of absolute silence until Angus’s muffled chuckling erupted into full-fledged laughter that echoed to the smoke-blackened beams of the empty hall.

  He rode his Flanders stallion like a fury to intercept the ambush but arrived too late. In helpless frustration, he watched the denouement of the scene unfold from the same knoll where only two days earlier he had laughed at Marsali clumping about in his boots.

  Two days, he raged inwardly. Only two days and his life had already begun to unravel like the threads of the ancient tapestries that had hung in the great hall. He tugged the spyglass from Johnnie’s hand, his jaw taut with anger as the disheartening details of the ambush came into focus.

  His clansmen had not only ambushed the captain of dragoons and his small command of soldiers, but also the coach that the captain had presumably been
escorting to safety. Duncan’s mind raced. What idiot would commission a coach to carry him into these wild Highland hills? A foreign dignitary who wished to hunt deer on a whim? What bloody stupid…

  He looked up at the dainty figure on horseback a few yards from the scene. She was bellowing out orders to Effie, who strode back and forth like a sergeant, with the piglets wallowing in the muddy water of the tarn.

  He leaned over the pommel, a vein pulsing in his temple as a tall cloaked figure emerged from the coach waving a white handkerchief in surrender. Lachlan followed, prodding the mercifully dressed victim toward the band of soldiers, who were huddled together in humiliation at the base of the crag.

  “Well, they’ve done it now,” Johnnie murmured, shaking his head in what might have been admiration or apprehension—Duncan was too upset to tell.

  He lowered the spyglass, his fingers flexing inside his gloves. What should he do? March back to the castle and pretend ignorance of the hellion’s activities? There would be a price on her head after this. A captain wouldn’t easily forget the humiliation of being paraded bare-bottomed in front of his men.

  Unnerved by Duncan’s silence, Johnnie cleared his throat. “What do we do now, my lord?”

  “God help me if I know. I’m damned if I come to the captain’s rescue, and damned if I don’t. And that idiot in the coach—”

  The idiot in question chose that precise moment to raise the lace hanky to give its nose a resounding blow. It was a gesture so annoyingly familiar that Duncan’s heart plunged in recognition. He’d know that honk anywhere.

  He forced his horse down the hillside and raised the spyglass again, praying he was wrong. He wasn’t.

  The cloaked figure was a woman. He groaned in despair.

  “What about that idiot, my lord?” Johnnie prompted softly, intrigued by the play of emotions that crossed his chieftain’s face.

  Duncan swallowed over a knot in his throat the size of a crab apple. “The idiot is Lady Edwina Grayson, my future bride’s aunt and chaperone, although I use the term advisedly. If Sarah and her father are in that coach, there isn’t going to be a wedding. Only a funeral. Mine.”