by Connie Mason
“Who among you are MacArthurs?” Graeme asked.
The shuffling of feet and evasive glances answered his question. There was not a MacArthur among Blair’s accusers. Who were they? Who had put them up to this? For what reason?
“There is no such thing as witchcraft,” Graeme bellowed. “Go back to your homes.”
“Not as long as the witch still lives to cast her evil spells,” a man shouted. “Death to the witch!”
Graeme had seen and heard enough. Some evil was afoot here. The MacArthur chieftain had been right. Danger permeated the charged air around him. From all indications, Blair MacArthur was in deep trouble. The question was whether or not the charges against her were justified.
His face composed in harsh lines, Graeme waved his sword above his head and shouted, “Begone, I say! If you return, I’ll set my men on you.”
The threat was enough to send Blair’s accusers fleeing.
“Think ye we’ve seen the last of them?” Heath asked.
“I dinna know. Someone put them up to this, and I intend to find out who.”
Graeme pounded on the gate with the hilt of his sword.
“Who be ye?” the gatekeeper asked.
“Graeme Campbell. Your laird sent for me.”
The gate swung open, admitting Graeme and his guardsmen. “Are the others gone?” the gatekeeper asked, peeking through the open gate.
“Aye, I chased them off. Where are the laird’s guardsmen?”
The elderly man gave a contemptuous snort. “Niall took them with him to Edinburgh, leaving behind naught but a handful of aging servants to serve the old laird and his daughter.”
He closed and barred the gate. “Go on up to the keep. The laird is expecting ye. His business with ye is all that’s keeping him alive.”
Graeme shook off his feeling of foreboding as he approached the keep. A lad ran up to take his horse as he dismounted, and he quickly climbed the stairs while his men followed the boy to the stables. An old man wearing the MacArthur plaid opened the door; his face lit up when he recognized the Campbell plaid Graeme wore.
“Be ye Graeme Campbell?”
“Aye,” Graeme said, stepping over the threshold. “Your laird is expecting me.”
“I be Gavin. Sit and refresh yerself while I tell the laird ye’re here.”
Graeme crossed the spacious hall and sprawled into a chair near the hearth. A serving maid appeared, thrusting a leather cup filled with foaming ale into his hand.
“Would ye like a wee drop of uisge breatha?” she asked timidly.
“Nay, lass,” Graeme said. In truth a wee drop of strong Scottish whiskey would sit well on his stomach after his long ride, but he wanted a clear head when he spoke with Douglas MacArthur.
Graeme was just finishing his ale when his men entered the hall. Mugs of ale and glasses of uisge breatha were passed around as the men took their ease. All but Graeme, who remained tense and on edge. The situation here was more serious than he had suspected. Cautiously he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to find a hook-nosed witch hovering over him. Cursing himself for a fool, he drained the last of his ale.
The Scots were a superstitious lot. Graeme recalled stories of a man named Jubertus who was supposed to have murdered children and made them into powder. From the powder, imitation children were made for demons to inhabit. According to the church, witchcraft was heresy—and the punishment was burning.
Unfortunately, King James had done nothing to ease the hysteria surrounding witchcraft. Indeed, he seemed to have a sick fascination with witches and felt no remorse over burning those unfortunate souls convicted of witchcraft. Graeme thought of Blair MacArthur, and a chill of apprehension raced down his spine.
“Laird MacArthur is eager to see ye,” Gavin said from behind Graeme. “Follow me. I will take ye to him.”
Jerked from his reverie, Graeme surged to his feet. “No more anxious than I am to see him. How fares MacArthur?”
“He is weak but lucid. I fear he is not long for this world. Mark my words—things will change around here once Niall becomes laird. And not for the better.”
The last was spoken with such bitterness that Graeme was immediately put on guard. What little he knew about Niall MacArthur had come from rumors, and none of what he’d heard was good.
“Douglas tires quickly,” Gavin warned as he led the way up the staircase to the master’s bedchamber.
“I’ll try not to tax him,” Graeme said as Gavin opened the door and stood aside.
“I’ll be just outside the door should ye have need of me,” Gavin said.
Graeme stepped into the chamber.
“Shut the door and come closer,” demanded a weak voice.
Graeme closed the door and approached the bed. “I am here as you requested, Laird MacArthur.”
“Thank ye for that, Graeme. I heard ye were wounded in France.”
Graeme scarcely recognized the emaciated man lying in the bed. The once robust MacArthur had wasted away to a mere shadow of himself. His sunken eyes and cheeks already had the look of death about them.
“ ’Twas naught,” Graeme said. “A lance wound to the thigh—long since healed.” He pulled a bench up to the bed.
“Did ye read my letter?” Douglas asked.
“Aye.”
“Is that all ye can say? Is yer answer yea or nay? I havena much longer in this world, and I would see my lass safe. Ye are the only man strong enough to protect her.”
Graeme considered mentioning his confrontation at the gate but decided it would be best for Douglas’s failing health if the danger to his daughter was kept from him.
Graeme’s silent contemplation seemed to agitate Douglas. “Dinna dither, mon! ’Tis little enough I ask of ye. Did I not save yer father’s life when he was arrested in 1425 on charges that he supported the Duke of Albany during the years King James was a prisoner of the English? Did I not put my life on the line when I swore that Ian Campbell was a loyal supporter of the king?”
“Aye,” Graeme acknowledged, “and grateful I am for it. But what you ask is—”
“I suppose ye heard the ruckus at the gate when ye arrived,” Douglas interrupted. “ ’Tisna true. None of it. My lass isna a witch, she’s a healer. She is a Faery Woman and well loved by her clansmen for her healing skills.”
He rose on his elbow and clutched Graeme’s arm with a bony hand. “I love my daughter, Graeme. I wouldna see her harmed.”
Graeme eased him back down on the bed. “Who would harm her if she is so well loved?”
“Listen carefully, Graeme, for time grows short. Ye must wed Blair and take her away before Niall returns. I’ve settled a generous dowry on her, and it will all be yours, including rich lands on the Isle of Skye.”
Graeme frowned. “Are you saying Niall wishes Blair harm?”
“Aye. He is jealous of his sister and fears her powers. He will give her to MacKay once I am dead and he becomes clan chief. Much as it grieves me to say so, Niall isna a good man.”
Confusion darkened Graeme’s brow. “How could Niall give Blair to MacKay against your wishes?”
“I have been ill a long time, and Niall has been slowly usurping my authority. He earned the loyalty of my guardsmen when they realized I was on my deathbed and Niall would succeed me as laird.”
“How does MacKay fit into all this?”
“Niall has formed an alliance with MacKay. I’m not sure why, but I think MacKay wants Blair for her powers. With Blair’s help, he intends to become the most powerful chieftain in the Highlands. He covets her for selfish reasons and not for the sweetness that dwells within her. I want a better fate for my lass. MacKay isna the mon for her.”
“I am sorry, Douglas, but I have no wish to wed.”
“Dinna say me nay, Graeme,” Douglas pleaded. “Ye’re my only hope of saving Blair.”
Douglas’s breathing was so labored, Graeme feared he was in imminent danger of expiring. Color drained from the old man’s face, and his emaciated frame
began to shake uncontrollably.
“Very well, Douglas, I will wed your daughter,” Graeme said, respecting MacArthur too much to deny his dying request. “Announce our betrothal, and in a few years we will wed.”
Douglas’s distress was palpable. “Nay! Ye must wed her now! Today. Before Niall returns. Ye must be properly wed and the marriage consummated immediately. If Blair is to be protected from Niall’s machinations, there must be no doubt about the legality of the marriage. Once Blair is wedded and bedded, ye can carry her back to Stonehaven with ye.”
“Does Blair want this? Is she prepared to wed a stranger?”
Douglas’s eyelids drooped. Graeme thought he had fallen asleep until he stirred restively and opened his eyes. “Blair is a stubborn lass, but she will obey me. Ye are aware of the Prophecy, are ye not?”
“Aye, I’ve heard of it, but I dinna believe in Faery Women or witches.”
“There is one more thing ye must know about Blair. She is afraid of falling in love. According to the legend, a Faery Woman will lose her powers if she loves in vain, so she will resist ye.”
Graeme let that news sink in and was relieved that Blair expected no more from him than his protection. He had lost his heart to Joan the Maid and still grieved for the innocent girl who believed that God spoke to her. He doubted he would ever love again.
“What say ye, Graeme Campbell? Will ye wed my lass and keep her safe?”
“Mayhap I should meet your daughter first,” Graeme hedged.
“Aye,” Douglas said with a pained gasp, “but I warn ye, ye havena time to dither.”
As if on cue, Gavin appeared in the doorway. “Shall I fetch the wee lass for ye, Douglas?”
“Aye, Gavin, ask Blair to attend me.”
Douglas fell back against the pillow, his face ashen.
“Why does your daughter not heal you?” Graeme asked. “You claim she is a healer, yet you are gravely ill.”
Douglas gave Graeme a sad smile. “I am an old mon and have earned eternal rest. Blair is a healer, nae a miracle worker. I’ve seen her heal a wound by merely touching it, but there is nae cure for the cancer inside my gut.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “My one regret is leaving Blair at the mercy of those who wish her harm. ’Tis why I summoned ye to my bedside, Graeme. Will ye have my lass on those terms?”
The door opened. “You wished to see me, Father? Are you in pain? Shall I fetch something to ease your suffering?”
Steeling himself for his first look at the Faery Woman, Graeme turned to confront Blair MacArthur. He prayed she wasn’t as ugly as Stuart had described. Could he bed a woman with no beauty and naught to commend her but her reputation as a witch?
Graeme blinked, blinked again, then stared rudely at the vision poised in the doorway. The girl was slim and delicate, with an ethereal quality about her. A cloak of silver blond hair wrapped her slender form in mystery. Graeme watched as she approached the bed. She did not walk like a mere mortal; she floated. Her face bore not one blemish, not one mark of witchcraft. Her eyes were the same violet as the heather that graced the Scottish moors. Graeme realized he would have to look far and wide to find a woman as lovely as Blair MacArthur.
Her nose was straight and small. His appreciative gaze lingered on her high cheekbones, generous lips and stubborn little chin before moving on to her other attributes. The deep purple gown that covered her lithe form from head to toe did little to conceal her womanly curves. Blair MacArthur was no scrawny witch.
“Come closer, lass,” Douglas said, crooking a bony finger at her.
Only a sidelong glance acknowledged Graeme’s presence as Blair approached the bed. “How can I help you, Father? Are you in pain?”
“No more than usual, lass. There is someone here I would like ye to meet.”
Blair turned to greet Graeme and froze. It was he! The man in her dreams, possessing the same vitality and raw male strength as the lover in her vision. His brows appeared as dark wings set above eyes as blue as the sea, and the black hair visible beneath his bonnet had a reddish sheen. Taller than the MacArthurs she had grown up with, he radiated power and agility. He was surrounded by an aura of maleness and danger and shivery desire, something she knew little about.
His hands were large, and the legs beneath the Campbell plaid were well shaped and athletic. Overall, his unrelenting masculinity was intimidating, but still she could not look away.
“This is Blair?” Graeme asked.
Pride temporarily banished the weakness from Douglas’s voice. “Aye, this is my lass. Blair, greet Graeme Campbell, yer intended husband.”
Blair’s smile dissolved into a look of astonishment. “Father, what have you done?”
“What any caring father would do,” Douglas said. “Graeme will keep ye safe after I am gone. I canna trust Niall to look after ye.”
Blair’s heart sank to her toes as she cast a sidelong glance at Graeme Campbell. What would he expect of her as a wife? She could only give so much of herself to any man. The Prophecy was clear. She dared not love, for to love in vain spelled doom for a Faery Woman. Healing was her life; she had no room in it for a husband.
She whirled on Graeme. “You agreed to this?”
Graeme shifted uncomfortably. “I owe your father a great debt. ’Tis the least I can do for him.”
“Why are you not wed? You are of an age.”
“I could ask the same of you,” Graeme shot back.
“Enough!” Douglas growled. “Will ye wed my lass, Graeme Campbell?”
Blair’s stubborn chin tilted upward. “I willna wed Graeme Campbell . . . or any man.”
His strength fading fast, Douglas gasped, “Would ye prefer Donal MacKay? I didna want to tell ye, but Niall has promised ye to the MacKay laird.”
A shudder of revulsion passed through Blair. She knew why MacKay wanted her. He coveted her powers and would force her to use them for evil purposes. “I dinna want MacKay. I want no man.”
And especially not a man like Graeme Campbell. Too much about him attracted her. He was a man without equal, a man any woman could love. But the voice inside her warned that his heart belonged to another.
Could she wed Graeme Campbell and not grow to love him? she wondered. Her alliance with the Campbell laird was her father’s dying wish. Could she deny his request and have any peace of mind afterward?
She could not.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to love Graeme Campbell. And she would not.
“I would like to speak to Blair in private before she decides,” Graeme said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Aye, but ’twill change naught,” Douglas said. “Blair will have ye if she values her life.”
Graeme sent Blair a speaking look and strode out the door, apparently expecting her to follow. Deploring his arrogance, Blair decided to follow and get this over with once and for all.
“Where can we talk?” Graeme asked.
“In here,” Blair said, pushing past him into a curtained alcove. Graeme followed close on her heels. She turned to confront him. “What is it you wish to say to me that couldna be said in front of my father?”
“Only this. Your father is dying and he fears that harm will come to you after his death. He has asked me to wed you, and I am willing to fulfill his dying request.” He sent her a challenging look. “Are you?”
“I canna be what you want me to be,” Blair whispered. “The Prophecy—”
“—is but a legend. I believe not in legends, spirits or faeries. Nor did I ask for your love, if that is what you fear. I am a man of wide experience and have no difficulty satisfying my needs. If you do not wish an intimate relationship, then so be it. I dinna need an heir. I have relatives aplenty to take my place after I am gone.”
She shuddered. “You make an alliance between us sound so cold.”
“I am being practical.”
“Do you love another?”
Graeme stared off into space, a cloud of sadness dimming his eyes. “Aye, but not in th
e way you think. My love is pure and true, on a higher plane than earthly love, but ’tis enough to sustain me.”
Briefly Blair wondered what paragon held Graeme’s heart, then quickly dismissed her question. She did not want to know. If she must wed Graeme Campbell, the less she knew about his emotional state, the better. Yet she could not forget her dreams, for they had seemed so very real.
So real that when she looked at him, her gaze penetrated his clothing to his warrior’s body. She closed her eyes and saw him towering over her with his man part full, erect and ready. In her dream she had opened to welcome him. Heat engulfed her, and a cry escaped her lips.
Graeme’s gruff voice pulled her from her vision. “Are you all right, lass?”
Her lids flew open and she saw him staring at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Aye, I am fine.”
Graeme studied Blair’s face with penetrating intensity. “Your father said you had healing powers. Do you also have ‘the sight’? Were you having a vision?” His expression grew stern. “Before you answer, know that I willna allow any dabbling in witchcraft. If we wed, I willna have you frightening my kinsmen with spells and such nonsense. You can heal their ills, but there will be no magic involved.”
Blair turned away. “Mayhap I should take my chances with MacKay. Though I dinna fully understand them, I canna deny my powers, and there are times when I am visited by spirits.”
Graeme sent her a quelling look. “Such talk is dangerous in these times.”
Blair drew herself up to her meager height. “I didna say I was a witch, and my powers are not used for evil purposes.”
“Evil or nay, there will be no casting of spells at Stonehaven. Shall we return to your father?”
Blair balked. She did not know Graeme Campbell. His outer beauty belied his harsh nature. What kind of husband would he make? He had promised to protect her, but that seemed to be as far as he was prepared to go. He had another love; his heart could never belong to her. But that was a good thing, was it not? Knowing where she stood with Graeme Campbell would keep her from losing her heart to him. She must heed the Prophecy’s warning.
“Verra well, Graeme Campbell. I will wed you so that my father can die in peace, but there will be no intimacy between us.”
