Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  “ ’Tisna me, ye half-wits,” Johnnie said in annoyance. “It’s himself, the chieftain.”

  “Ye dinna say,” Owen said, sincerely astonished. “The chieftain and Marsali? I’d never have believed it. When did this happen?”

  Lachlan shook his head. “I wondered why he was kissin’ her.”

  Judith looked at Marsali. “And this match pleases you as well?”

  Marsali grinned mischievously at Duncan, pretending to give the question serious thought.

  He tightened his grip around her shoulders. “It had better please her because she doesn’t have any choice in the matter. From now on she’s doing what I tell her.”

  “I doubt it,” Marsali said.

  “So do I,” Judith murmured.

  “He could have saved everyone a load of trouble if he’d decided this a month ago,” Marsali added. “Anyway, we’ll all be leaving now.”

  “Deo gratias,” Judith said under her breath. “Thanks be to God.”

  There was a deep awkward silence. Duncan was dying to take off his habit and change back into his own shirt and trews. He couldn’t even think about sharing his feelings with Marsali while wearing a dress. He couldn’t keep his hands off her either. He couldn’t resist touching and kissing her as a prelude to all the physical pleasure they would enjoy as man and wife. And he wished to ask his sister’s forgiveness for everything he had done, and to reassure her that he had changed.

  But these weren’t the kinds of things a man could do or say in a convent belltower. So he had to content himself with a few well-chosen words and hope that they would convey the emotions he might never be allowed to express again.

  “Judith,” he began, “I want you to know—”

  The tower erupted into an ear-deafening din as an unseen bell-ringer from above began to peal out the call for evening prayers. Duncan covered his ears reflexively; Marsali buried her head in his chest. Owen, Lachlan, and Johnnie gave vent to a few salty oaths, which, fortunately, due to the ungodly clanging, could not be heard by the Mother Superior and the convent headmistress.

  Finally, just as the noise drove everyone to the door, and Duncan shouted, “Who is that numbskull in the belfry?”— the pealing came to an end.

  Judith’s voice rose with caustic emphasis in the throbbing silence. “That was your daughter, Duncan. And I am relieved to place the responsibility for her into your hands. Neither she nor your future wife show any sign of a religious vocation whatsoever.”

  Duncan looked as if the bell itself had hit him on the head. “My daughter? What daughter?”

  Judith drew herself up. “We have named her Hannah Elizabeth. The doctor’s wife gave her up when she was a bairn, and we have raised the girl the best we could. Unfortunately, she has your rather dominant nature, Duncan. She certainly does not have the makings of a nun.”

  Hannah came bounding down the stairs and hurled herself into Duncan’s arms. As big as he was, the impact sent him staggering back into the courtyard. “Papa, I always knew you’d come!”

  Stunned, Duncan put his arm out automatically to embrace her. His dazed expression was an amusing contrast to Hannah’s exuberance. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked Judith sharply. “Didn’t you think I had a right to know?” Judith lowered her gaze, unable to answer.

  Marsali stood back to witness the poignant meeting with a wistful smile. “From the first time I broke up a fight between Hannah and the other girls,” she whispered to Johnnie, “I felt a special bond between us. I just can’t imagine it, all of us living together in the castle as a family.”

  “I canna imagine all of us fittin’ into the boat,” Johnnie retorted, shaking his head. “Oh, well. At least that queer mist is lifted.”

  Marsali glanced around in wonder. Nuns scurried toward the chapel, their veils wafting behind them like ghosts in the gloaming. What had made the mist disappear? There wasn’t a shred of it to be seen.

  Duncan held his daughter at arm’s length, carefully, as if she too might disappear. “Did you know about her, Marsali?”

  She turned, her heart lodging in her throat at the stark vulnerability in Duncan’s voice. He stood between her and Hannah, his arm outstretched to encompass them both in his possessive grasp. He looked boyish and sinfully beautiful. The love brimming in his eyes was everything she’d ever dreamed of and more.

  She flew to his side, grinning up into his face. “I always thought there was something a little familiar about her, my lord. And sometimes when I’d hear her swearing a blue streak in the dormitory, the image of you would cross my mind.”

  “But she didn’t guess I was the chieftain’s daughter,” Hannah chimed in. “No offense, Papa, I always longed for this day, but I did expect you to dress a little more impressively.”

  Marsali leaned back comfortably against Duncan’s broad ribcage. “Of course it makes perfect sense now. You do have his temper, Hannah. And his feet.”

  “She favors him a wee bit around the eyes too,” Owen observed, joining the happy little trio.

  Johnnie sauntered up to contribute his opinion. “Good thing she doesn’t have his beard. Still, seein’ the two of them standing there in those dresses, ye could take ’em for sisters.”

  Duncan swallowed a laugh. Joy was surging through him, so tender and unfamiliar that he was half afraid to trust it. It struck him with a sense of gratitude, as he looked at Hannah, taking in her young, hopeful face, that one good thing had come out of his misspent youth after all. He coughed to hide his emotions. Then he loosened his bodice with his free hand, his veil resting against his strong brown throat. “We’ll change, and then we’re getting out of here,” he announced.

  There were nuns, who were supposed to be in chapel, peeking at them from behind the broad colonnades. The convent schoolgirls had gathered in a giggling circle to see the scandalous excitement. Evening prayers had been forgotten; disorder spread through the cloister like an epidemic, and Judith was determined to restore peace to her cloister.

  To add to the chaos, Owen had removed his veil to hold the plums that Lachlan was picking from the convent’s orchard, and Jamie could be heard yelling obscene threats to the men who dragged him down to the boat on the beach.

  “You have to leave, Duncan,” Judith said firmly. “Now You may keep the habits. Quite frankly I shudder at the thought of you disrobing in public, but I insist you leave the cloister this very instant.”

  He smiled at her.

  She almost smiled back.

  “All right,” he said. “We’re going. I’ve got what I came for: a bride. Well, I’ve gotten more, actually. I’ve gotten a daughter into the bargain. Thank you for keeping the two of them safe.”

  Her lips compressed into a line, Judith gave him a faint nod and made a determined beeline for the chapel. Sister Bridget hurried after her but paused a few steps on the path to look back at Duncan.

  A rueful smile flitted across her friendly face. “What a shame ye’re not the abbess,” she whispered with a chuckle. “I could’ve used a pair of shoulders like yours when putting up the henhouse.”

  Duncan grinned, white teeth flashing like a pirate’s against his beard. “Don’t give up hope yet, Sister Bridget. The abbess must be quite the athlete to row all the way from Ireland.”

  “Goodbye, Reverend Mother!” Marsali shouted from the convent gate, waving as the dark-robed figure ducked into the chapel, herding her charges in before her.

  Hannah shook her head, her blue eyes mirthful. “Anyone would think she was glad to be rid of us.”

  Duncan gave them a gentle push through the gate, keeping a protective hand on each of their shoulders. “I can’t imagine why,” he teased them, and then he shook his head. Dear God, a wife like Marsali, and a daughter who had his temper. He had a feeling that all the battles he’d fought were scant preparation for the future.

  They clambered down the sandy incline to the shore, splashing through tidal pools and cool sprays of surf. Jamie MacFay sat in the prow of his own fi
shing skiff, trussed up like a turkey with a gag stuck in his mouth. Someone had tied a bit of tattered plaid like a bow in his hair. Hues of silver mauve blended into the sky like watercolors. Starlight twinkled on the foamy waves.

  “And we didn’t spill a drop of blood,” Duncan said with satisfaction as he helped Marsali into the boat. He sent a grateful glance of acknowledgment to his three clansmen. “In fact, it was the perfect military maneuver. My own troops couldn’t have done better. I’m proud of you, men.” Owen, Lachlan, and Johnnie gaped at him in dumbfounded silence. They had no inkling how to respond. No one had ever praised them, for anything, in their miserable lives.

  “It wasna completely perfect,” Owen said humbly. “We did get our dresses wet, and I’ve ruined my stockings.”

  Lachlan settled down onto the sailing thwart. “We probably should have helped Tore carry Jamie out of the belltower. As a courtesy, ye ken.”

  “Ye did a fine job though, my lord,” Johnnie said with touching loyalty.

  “Except for the part about playing God,” Marsali remarked as she and Hannah squeezed down onto the damp floorboards at the bow, huddled together in preparation for the awful journey ahead.

  Duncan gave the boat a powerful shove from the shoreline and jumped on board as Johnnie propelled them over the waves. The world looked placid and endlessly gray— until he looked down at Marsali and realized that because of her the familiar ache of loneliness and self-recrimination was slowly ebbing away from his awareness like the tide. A dozen incongruous emotions were attacking his composure all at once. He felt like laughing and hugging her and yelling at the top of his lungs that she was his woman.

  He was beginning to view life with a touch of her delightfully skewed perspective.

  He sat down heavily on the rowing thwart, pretending to scowl. “What was wrong with the way 1 played God?”

  Marsali raised her brow as he hiked his habit up to his massive horseman’s thighs. “I don’t know. It was a little too theatrical for my taste. All that stabbing and twirling about on your toes.”

  Duncan’s scowl deepened. “It’s called thrusting and parrying. It happens to be an art. Most people around the world consider me a master at it. There are poems—”

  “That might be, my lord,” Marsali argued mildly, “but I doubt if God would go around stabbing bits of boiled cabbage and hopping over soup bowls.”

  Hannah nodded in agreement. “It was a bit much, Papa.”

  “I liked it, my lord,” Owen said, picking up a bucket. “It was the finest interpretation of God I’ve ever seen.”

  Johnnie handed Duncan the other oar. “You were so convincing that I half expected thunder to boom in the background when you held up that spoon to the sky.” Duncan was silent.

  “In fact,” Johnnie continued, “I’ve told the lads many times over, ‘The chieftain reminds me of God.’ Haven’t I, lads?”

  Owen frowned. “Actually, Johnnie, I think what ye used to say was, ‘The chieftain acts like he’s God.’ ”

  Duncan shook his head. He didn’t want to go from being their demon to a deity. Only Marsali had always seen him for what he was: a man with strengths and failings, a man who had struggled to overcome his past and who had made inevitable mistakes along the way. For all her inexperience, she possessed an emotional wisdom that would make her father proud.

  The stars were slowly fading from the sky like distant candle flames extinguished in swirls of smoke. Something inside him was dying too, the old regrets crumbling to ashes as hope was reborn.

  “How do we know which way to row?” Lachlan asked, gazing around in consternation.

  “We’ll follow the hawk,” Duncan said, and everyone glanced up as the graceful bird rode an air current, gliding in lazy circles above the sea.

  A few minutes later another tiny boat bobbed into view. Marsali and Hannah stopped bailing water with their buckets to watch. Three rather robust-looking nuns rowed vigorously past them while a fourth sat in the middle of their sturdy little craft, praying her heart out.

  Marsali waved at them, shouting, “You must be the Irish abbess!”

  “Yes, I am,” the nun at the stern answered in surprise. “We’re looking for Our Lady of the Sea cloister, and we’re lost.”

  “You’re about an hour away,” Duncan said, pointing with his oar. “Look, you can just see the tip of the belltower over there.”

  The little Irish boat hovered for a few moments in the water. The three nuns stared in complete silence at the four men dressed in habits who nodded and smiled politely.

  “Thank you,” the abbess said at last, snatching up her oar. “God bless you… sisters. I think.”

  Cramped. Cold. Wet. Miserable. Ravenous. The six intrepid voyagers were numb by the time dawn broke and found them approaching the misty coast of the cove. The rocks of the shore protruded from the water like the teeth of a predator waiting to devour the tiny boat.

  Marsali groaned and threw down the oar she had taken over for Owen, falling forward in boneless exhaustion into Duncan’s lap. “I’m dead.”

  Duncan grunted. He was too tired to keep her from sliding over his knees and hitting the floorboards with a wet thud. He stared down at her in sympathy. Every muscle in his body twitched in protest. His bones felt frozen, fused together in agony.

  “We have to get married,” he said weakly.

  Marsali’s eyes dropped with the weight of her gritty lids. “I’m too tired to be a bride…”

  Her voice trailed off. In the cove, candlelight winked like a welcoming beacon from the leaded cabin windows of the wizard’s shipwrecked sanctuary.

  “We’re home, Papa!” Hannah shrieked in excitement, crawling over the inert figures of Owen, Lachlan, Johnnie, and Marsali to wrest the oar from her father’s rigid fingers.

  Duncan grunted again. A more intelligent response was beyond him. Several yards away, Jamie’s former retainers dragged their skiff ashore. The sight of the arrogant young Highlander gave Duncan a desperately needed shot of energy. His blue eyes burned with remembered anger.

  “Little bastard,” he said, grabbing the oar that lay across Marsaii’s chest.

  She forced her eyes open, frowning up into his face. “What did you call me?”

  “Not you. It’s MacFay. I’d forgotten he has to be dealt with.”

  Owen moaned, regaining consciousness. Marsali exerted the last of her strength to struggle back onto the thwart. “Home,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  Duncan looked out at the waters, concentrating on rowing them in, closing his mind to the nostalgic affection on her face. Not in a hundred years would he call this inhospitable pile of rocks home. He fought an irrational urge to turn the boat around and set sail for anywhere but here.

  Johnnie sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Look, my lord. The whole clan has turned out to welcome us back.”

  Duncan raised his skeptical gaze to the castle. “The first clansman who makes a comment about the way we’re dressed is spending a week in the dungeon.”

  “It’s not the clan.” Marsali said, the fear in her voice penetrating his fatigue. “Those are redcoats on the cliff waiting for us. They’re armed, by the look of it.”

  No one said anything. Duncan lowered the oar, scanning the cliffs with a still face. Like a fool, he’d forgotten his promise to keep Marsali hidden away. He’d forgotten that she and the men in the boat were practically marked outlaws whom even his rank and influence might not be able to protect.

  He picked up the oar. His jaw set in tight lines, he slowly resumed rowing toward the cove. “I’ll take care of this. Stay in the boat.” He looked up briefly at the five expectant faces that watched him. “For God’s sake, just behave yourselves this one time.”

  Chapter

  32

  God might not actually deign to indulge in a common sword fight, but Duncan decided He enjoyed a good joke. On him.

  It was probably the most important negotiation in Duncan’s memory. It had probably never mat
tered more that he make a formidable impression. After all, Marsali’s life was at stake, and at least a hundred muskets followed his slow climb up the cliffside path.

  And he was confronting his military inferiors in a dress. The situation called for full-scale bombastic male bravado.

  He strode up directly to Major Darling, who did not immediately recognize the bearded man in a black dress as Europe’s foremost military genius. And when he did recognize Duncan, his mouth dropped open and incoherent baby-bird noises sounded in his throat.

  A tiny breeze fluttered across the clifltops. A buzz of speculative astonishment ran through the soldiers standing in readiness to shoot. From his peripheral vision, Duncan noticed Eun the hawk lighting on a nearby ledge as if to protect Marsali.

  Duncan took Darling’s arm to draw him aside. “I wish I could have let you in on this earlier, Darling. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you.”

  The major blinked, lowering his voice to match Duncan’s conspiratorial tone. “Let me in on what?”

  “The secret mission to flush out the Jacobite leader. Surely you know about the British sentry who was severely beaten down the coast not a few days ago?”

  “Of course I know, my lord. Why do you suppose I have my entire regiment blocking the cove?”

  “Because you’re a damned fine soldier, that’s why,” Duncan answered. “Because as long as you’re in charge, no Jacobite traitor can carry out his subversive activities in safety.”

  “Well, it’s true that I—”

  “And because you are obviously a man of the highest integrity and dedication, Darling, I am going to take you into my confidence.” Duncan paused, giving the major an inscrutable but measuring look. “You have wondered why I’m wearing a dress, haven’t you?”

  “No. Well, yes. Actually, it did cross my mind.”

  “Of course it crossed your mind, Darling. Nothing would get by that iron-trap brain of yours, would it?”

  Major Darling’s heart palpitated fiercely beneath his scarlet coat. This was the highlight of his career. Finally. Finally, he was to become privy to a genuine military genius’s modus operandi. He who had dreamed of foreign bivouacs and battles that made history books, but who had been banished to this lonely Scottish coast to harass women and pigs.