Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  Chapter

  29

  He was leaving the castle within the hour. Escaping at last.

  He ought to be running down the haunted hallways, flaunting his freedom in front of the ghosts. Superficially, at least, his debts were discharged. He’d done his best. The heaviness would lift as soon as he fled the oppressive walls.

  He picked up a toy soldier from the solar floor on his way to the door. A strained smile softened his face at the bittersweet memory of losing that battle to Marsali.

  Oh, look, they’re dolls. Can I play too, my lord?

  “Silly girl,” he mused aloud, gripping the lead figure in his palm. “They aren’t dolls. I wasn’t playing.”

  A curt knock sounded at the door. It was Edwina, looking overblown and uncomfortable in the red scarlet coat and plumed hat of her father’s army uniform over her own riding habit. “The horses are ready. Good God. You’re not playing with your toys again, are you, Duncan? I thought you wanted to be off just after dawn.”

  Duncan tossed the soldier down onto the desk.

  “Aren’t you even going to say goodbye to the clan?” Edwina asked in concern.

  “What for?” Duncan frowned. “Where is Abercrombie anyway? He was supposed to hand over the accounts.”

  “Cook says he’s run off to the British fortress to beg asylum. By the way, I gave my coach to Marsali’s nieces and nephews.” She paused for effect, her face taut with disapproval. “It was the least I could do, since their beloved aunt was so cruelly torn from the bosom of the family.”

  “Don’t start, Edwina. She got what she deserved.”

  Duncan brushed past her. He refused to glance back into the room where the phantom of poignant regret lingered in the stillness. His voice tense, he said, “Forget the fond farewells too. We’ll be lucky if we don’t cross the drawbridge without an arrow in the behind as a parting insult.”

  Predictably, he had to bellow to have the portcullis raised, the drawbridge lowered. He needn’t have worried about the arrows, though. No one bothered to see him off. After all, it was still morning.

  And he was no longer the chieftain.

  He had handed the burden of responsibility to Johnnie the previous evening, although it was doubtful that Johnnie, half asleep at the time, even remembered the fact.

  And now he was riding from his crumbling old castle for the last time. London beckoned, with its glittering ladies to fawn over him and lords to flatter. His dukedom awaited. He would return to a superficial world, which would welcome him as a hero.

  He was finally free of rebellious little ragamuffins and insubordinate clansmen. He stared ahead to the sun-dappled hills, inhaling the perfume of fading heather and unfulfilled hopes.

  He said a silent goodbye to his mother as he rode slowly past her grave in the churchyard. In the next breath he cursed Fergus aloud to hell for all eternity.

  The heaviness hadn’t lifted. By the time he reached the crag where Marsali had ambushed him, his heart felt as if it were entombed once more behind a stone that emotion would never penetrate again.

  Yet, briefly, for one magical summer, a shaft of sunlight had broken through. Marsali, Johnnie, Lachlan, Owen. Even Effie and her piglets had carved out a place in his heart. And left it bleeding.

  Edwina glanced up at the crag, her hand hovering above the pistol Marsali had given her as a farewell gift. “If they strip you naked when you enter, what do you suppose happens when you leave?” she asked worriedly.

  “They probably roll a boulder or two down the road after—” His face attentive, Duncan swerved around in the saddle. “My God, do you see what I see?”

  The thunder of hoofbeats down the hill heralded the approach of a single horseman—actually, a horsewoman. With the stamina of a Celtic warrior, Cook galloped straight toward them on Marsali’s mare, waving a rolling pin over her head.

  Effie followed on foot, blowing her hunting horn. The piglets trotted at her heels with their plump bellies swaying. A few seconds later Johnnie, Lachlan, and Owen climbed to the rise of the hill on their worn little ponies.

  “They’re going to kill us. I told you not to send Marsali away.” Edwina backed her horse into a crevice of the crag. “Don’t just sit there, Duncan. Defend us.”

  Duncan gave no indication he had heard. He was too intent on translating the look on Agnes’s face as she drew her heaving horse alongside his. Fear, he would guess, and not vengeance, had sent her charging from the castle.

  “What is it?” he asked in concern.

  “My lord.” She paused to catch her breath; her mobcap dangled from her ear. “The old MacFay is dead. Jamie’s announced to anyone who’ll listen that his first act as chieftain will be to rescue Marsali from the convent. He’s threatened to cut down anyone who stands in his way. A Sassenach colonel who tried to question him was beaten senseless.”

  Duncan released his breath with a soft curse. He thought of his sister, of Marsali and the nuns, defenseless on their secluded island with only their innocent prayers to protect them. He envisioned Jamie and his decadent entourage defiling the sanctity of the little cloister. It was a crime he’d never thought even Jamie would dare.

  “How do you know this, Agnes?”

  “One of Jamie’s cousins refused to join the attack and was banished from the clan. He rowed all the way here to warn ye and ask for refuge.” Cook’s eyes bored coldly into his. “Of course, he didna ken ye’d abdicated the chieftainship.”

  “They have a day’s travel on ye already,” Effie called down from the hill.

  Duncan considered this in silence, calculating the distance to the convent from the castle versus that from the MacFay stronghold. Even with a day’s disadvantage, the odds were that Jamie would reach the island at least several hours before him.

  He glanced across the moor, thinking aloud. “It all depends on the weather.”

  The others had reached the crag, their faces uplifted in expectant silence. He turned to Edwina. “I can’t let this happen. Not for a dukedom. Not for anything.”

  Edwina nodded in agreement. “I know that. Don’t worry—I’ll make up a delicious excuse in your defense for the prime minister.”

  “Anything but the truth,” Duncan said, with a grim smile at the thought of what might be his final battle being fought to defend a nunnery.

  And Marsali.

  Duncan felt a rush of gratitude for his old friend as she touched her crop to her horse. “Edwina.”

  The Englishwoman drew back on the reins, her enormous pearl earrings glistening in the sunlight. “You want me to come with you?” she asked hopefully.

  “No.” Duncan grinned. “I want you to pull a few more strings and have the banns proclaimed for my wedding. Something tells me this is going to be a rushed ceremony. Go back to the castle first and have Martin ride to the fort to arrange an escort for you. I think Major Darling would jump at the chance to win your favor.”

  Edwina dug in her heels, eager to be of help. “I’ll have Colum conjure up good traveling weather for us both,” she called over her shoulder as she set off back across the moor at a canter.

  Lachlan and Owen, having dismounted from their ponies, stared at each other in surprise. “Ye’re getting married, my lord?” Owen asked the chieftain.

  “Yes.”

  Lachlan frowned. “Before or after we rescue Marsali?”

  “After. I can’t get married in a convent, can I?”

  “I dinna realize the chieftain had a sweetheart in the convent,” Owen whispered.

  Lachlan shrugged. “Perhaps she’s made friends wi’ Marsali. We’ll have to rescue them both.”

  Johnnie shook his head. “Heaven knows what mischief Marsali has cooked up in that convent by now. I suspect Jamie is abducting her as much to defy ye, my lord, as to claim a bride.”

  Duncan beat down the panic that rose at the thought, threatening the cool logic he needed to rely on. “I’ll need your help, Johnnie. I want you with me.”

  Johnnie n
odded.

  “Aye, we’ll all be fightin’ at yer side just like in the old days,” Owen added, although he’d never used his sword to stab anything except a loaf of bread in his life.

  Effie whipped off her apron and surrendered it to Cook. “The twins and I would like to enlist too, my lord.”

  Duncan swallowed. How absurd he should feel affection for his incorrigible clan. “Effie, I appreciate the offer, but I’d prefer having you and the pigs stay to protect the castle. Agnes, I’m leaving you in command. Johnnie, you and the men will ride with me to the cove. We’re setting sail immediately.”

  Johnnie flashed him an approving grin. “Aye, my lord. Ye’re the chieftain.”

  “So I am,” Duncan said wryly. Then, spurring his heavy stallion toward the hill, he pulled off his hat and coat and tossed them over his shoulder into the tarn in recognition of the woman who had given him back his life.

  He rode past the lonely memorial cairn on the moor where Andrew Hay had been buried. He didn’t intend to stop; his entire being pulsed with an urgency to intercept Jamie before it was too late.

  It was the white roses that caught his eye, placed on Andrew’s grave in loving memory by a mourning clansman. The MacElgins were a loyal bunch of idiots, if nothing else.

  He slowed his horse, urging the stallion up the hillside, its heavy body shuddering with impatience. War had been bred into its very blood, like the man it had carried through so many violent battles.

  Duncan stared down at the simple cairn, gripping the reins in his gloved hands. A warm breeze teased the wilted petals of the white roses, carrying their scent into the air. It seemed hard to believe that Andrew’s passionate spirit lay forever stilled under these stones.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” he said, swallowing hard as the horse shifted restlessly beneath him, eager to be gone. “All I can tell you is that I love her. I won’t let anything hurt her, but I want her for my wife. I hope you will forgive me again.”

  The horse tossed its heavy head, snorting, pawing the ground. Duncan crossed himself and touched his spurs to his mount’s flanks. As he rode back toward the road, he thought he heard a burst of disturbingly familiar laughter and a gruff voice that aroused an ache of nostalgic affection.

  Aye, and it took you long enough, lad. What have you been waiting for?

  Chapter

  30

  Fiona stared through the porthole at the four men who had launched out across the waves in a lobster boat. She couldn’t believe it. The chieftain himself sat at the prow. Plying the oars with an effortless strength, he propelled the craft forward until she could barely see it against the horizon.

  “It’s the MacElgin, Dad,” she said in astonishment. “Do you think he’s heard about Jamie going after Marsali?”

  Colum did not acknowledge the question. Hunched over a three-legged black cauldron in the corner of the cabin, he was lost in concentration. A tiny wooden boat that held four wax figures floated on the surface of the sea water he’d collected in the iron basin.

  With painstaking care, he dropped the first of three pebbles into the water. Gently he blew against the boat, repeating a Celtic incantation.

  “That looks like fun,” Fiona said in his ear as she plopped down beside him. “What are you doing?”

  He jumped in startlement. The pebbles in his hand hit the water with a loud splash. The tiny boat bobbed wildly in the ripples that washed across the cauldron. The four wax figures toppled against one another.

  “By all the Gods in Gaeldom!” Colum shouted in exasperation. “Can’t you see when I am working, Fiona? You’ve probably drowned the fools with your ill-timed interference.”

  “The fools—you mean, the chieftain and his clansmen?” She threw her thin arms around him in relief. “Oh, Dad. You are going to help Marsali. I knew you would.”

  He frowned in irritation. “Go outside and practice talking to trees, Fiona. Polish the silver pentacle. Find some pretty stones for your amulet collection. Project yourself into the Otherworld.”

  “But Dad—”

  “Go now, Fiona. I haven’t a moment to waste. If Jamie MacFay reaches the convent before the chieftain, there is no spell on earth that can save your cousin. She will end up marrying the simpleton, and he will get them both killed in some pointless rebellion.”

  The note of panic in his voice mobilized her. “Poor Marsali,” she said, her face pale with distress as she rose to her feet.

  Colum vented a sigh, reaching into the cauldron to steady the tiny boat. “Take Eun with you. Release him on the cliff.”

  “All right, Dad. No sacrifice is too great to help Marsali.”

  She crept past him to unhook the hawk preening his feathers on his driftwood perch. She didn’t utter another word. Not even when Eun hopped onto her head and dug his taloned feet into her ears. Tears filled her eyes as she contemplated Marsali’s fate. Imprisoned in a convent, unaware that Jamie MacFay, the pig, was on his way to abduct her. Why did her cousin always have all the excitement?

  She stifled a sob. She brushed a tear from her nose. She was so upset she forgot about her father crouched on the floor. She even forgot about his Celtic cauldron until she tripped over it and sent its contents sloshing everywhere.

  Duncan dropped the oars and grabbed Owen by the ankles as another wave slammed against the sidewale. The storm had erupted without warning as if stirred up by a mischievous sea deity. The lobster boat spun like a top and nosed into a trough.

  Johnnie slammed into Lachlan, who slammed into Duncan, who clung to Owen’s ankles as the craft threatened to capsize. It took all of Duncan’s strength to fight the vortex twirling them in circles.

  Strangely, the sun continued to shine through the deluge of heavy rain and unbridled waves. Duncan had never seen anything like it in his life. He could swear they were caught in the eye of a storm that hadn’t struck anywhere else in the sea. Their own exclusive summer tempest.

  “We’re going to drown,” Owen wailed to no one in particular as an oar sailed over his head into the turbulent waters.

  A monstrous wave rose overhead and hit the boat like a block of green ice. A claw of salty water slapped Duncan in the face. Lachlan screamed and threw his arms around Duncan’s neck, clinging like a limpet. Duncan fell on his face; his body ached with the shock of cold and the strain of holding on to Owen’s ankles. In his profession he had always accepted the possibility of an early death. A violent death.

  But not this. Not drowning in a lobster boat with one idiot choking him like an iron collar and another pulling his arm out of its socket. It reeked of indignity. It wasn’t fair.

  “God,” he said into the roaring wind, “I always suspected You had a sense of humor. But don’t let me die before I get Marsali to safety.”

  Then, just as mysteriously as it had erupted, the storm came to an end. The towering waves receded into playful whitecaps. The wind subsided to a sweet breeze. The boat righted itself like a leaf steadied by an invisible hand. Lachlan released his terrified stranglehold on Duncan’s throat. Owen scrambled back over the thwarts.

  “Thank God,” Duncan said in a hoarse voice, pushing his wet tangled hair from his face.

  He gazed across the water. The storm had blown them far enough along so that by now he should have been able to see the Island of Inverothes. Yet all he could make out was a mysterious body of mist rising from the sea where the convent should have been. Not a tree. Not a rock. Not a cliff.

  Johnnie was bailing water from the boat with a rusty bucket. “Well, my lord?” he asked anxiously. “What do we do now?”

  Duncan rubbed his face as he stared in helpless silence at the nebulous shape on the sea. Was that the belltower rising from the mist, or an illusion of his own desperation? What the hell had happened to the island? They hadn’t been blown that far off course.

  He had built his military career on taking chances. He had gambled the fate of great nations on his intuition. He had never cared so much about the outcome.

&n
bsp; I want Marsali Hay. I’m takin' her too, ye bloody bastard.

  “Are ye all right, my lord?” Owen asked in concern.

  Duncan raised his head as a dark graceful shape soared high above the misty contours, gliding on a thermal wind— a guidepost he could not misinterpret. “Eun,” he said with a grim smile of gratitude. “The hawk is showing us where she is.”

  Judith stared at her brother in consternation through the heavy iron bars of the convent gate. Duncan had appeared so unexpectedly, springing up from the sea grasses and rock-strewn shore that encircled the cloister that she had crossed herself in alarm. She had been tossing out crumbs for the gulls.

  Moments passed before she recognized the fierce dark face. MacElgin, the warrior. The man revered in the world she disclaimed. He looked like a total barbarian, banging at the gate with his sword drawn and his long black hair in a tangle down his back.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, recovering her composure. “You’re soaking wet. Why are you brandishing that awful weapon?”

  Duncan’s dark gaze scoured the arcaded cloisters behind her. “Has Jamie MacFay been here yet?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” She glanced past him in chagrin to the three other Highlanders dragging a boat ashore. “Duncan, who are these scruffy men? How dare you disturb our peace in this uncouth manner?”

  His face grim, he shoved his sword back in his scabbard. “I want Marsali back. Bring her to me, and I’ll be gone before anyone else sees me.”

  “You may visit at the end of the month for an hour with the other families,” she said crisply. “Please leave before you upset the others. We have received a special dispensation for an Irish abbess and three lay sisters to join our order. I would not have them arrive to the sight of a man banging uncouthly at the gates with a sword.”

  Duncan gripped the bars, his voice husky with frustration. “I don’t think you understand me. Jamie MacFay is on his way here to get Marsali. I’m taking her away before he hurts her or anyone else.”