Faerie Fate

by Silver James

  Niall stared at her. “What do you see, cailín? Is this the one who haunts the MacDermot’s dreams?”

  Siobhan stilled, looking inward for the answers.

  Niall wrapped his big arms around her, and pulled her against the heat of his body. The night was bloody cold. Dread wrapped his heart in an icy fist. He had no doubts this banshee was tied to Ciaran. Reluctantly, he turned Siobhan loose and mounted his horse. Alarmed by the eerie screams filling the night, he needed to investigate them, and would have even without Siobhan’s urging. He leaned low over the neck of his sweating horse and urged the animal to run faster.

  ****

  Rebecca heard voices speaking gibberish. Something poked her in the side and she moaned. The gibberish abruptly ceased. The sound of heavy feet shuffling through dry grass stopped a little distance away. A moment later, the men spoke again, but their words were indistinct.

  “Help me.” Did any sound escape her dry throat? She licked parched lips. “Please help me.”

  The man who had prodded her with his foot moved closer to take a look at her. He glanced over his shoulder. “Have you a clue as to who she is?”

  “Nay,” the second one said as he came closer. “There’s no knowin’ who she could be. ’Tis a bad business, and one we should walk away from.”

  “She might clean up enough to warm me bed,” the first sneered.

  He jerked the scrap of wool covering her body. Another spasm built in her middle. Rebecca was helpless. The shooting star flashed up her spine and splintered into a million pieces in her brain. She screamed and screamed. The sound echoed eerily in the cold air.

  Startled, the first man dropped the blanket. Together, the two men ran, barely covering a hundred feet before a company of horsemen cut off their escape. They exchanged panicked looks.

  Alarmed by the eerie screams filling the night, Niall leaned low over the neck of his sweating horse and urged the animal to run faster. He rounded a sharp turn on the narrow track and pulled up short, astonished to find Ciaran and a company of horse surrounding two peasants.

  “Nay, Taoiseac,” the roughest of the two denied, “we dinnit touch her.”

  Niall slid from his horse and strode to the huddled figure half-hidden in the shadow of an ancient oak. He knelt down and peered at the lump. The creature was probably female, but with her battered face and snarled hair, Niall wouldn’t wager a guess on her age. He stared at the battered hands clutching the thin mantle covering her wretched body. A shadow flickered behind him and he looked up. Ciaran stared down from his stallion.

  “I’ll take her to Siobhan,” Niall offered. He bent over and scooped the unresisting body into his arms. Before he could take a breath, cold steel bit into his neck. In one fluid motion, Ciaran had dismounted, pulled his dagger, and threatened his second-in-command. Niall stared, confused by the actions of the man he would follow through the gates of hell. Ciaran’s face resembled a stone mask.

  The female in Niall’s arms stirred, and as he held her he could actually feel the spasm of pain in her as it built, traveling from her midsection and radiating outward. The pitiful thing opened her mouth, but she was so exhausted no sound escaped. The knife slid away from his throat.

  Ciaran knelt on the ground, holding his hands to his head, rocking in time to the spasms of pain shuddering through the woman. “I can’t take her pain any longer, Niall.” He groaned. Slowly, he picked up his dagger, moving his hand and arm in an upward arc, his intent plain. Ciaran meant to kill the woman.

  Her eyes flickered open and they shone silver in the pale moonlight. “Please,” her lips whispered. “Help me.” She stared up into dark, stormy eyes. “Where am I? Who are you?” She sighed. Her long, dark lashes fluttered down to shutter her eyes.

  Niall exchanged a look with Ciaran. “What language was that, Taoiseac?”

  Ciaran stared at the woman lying between them. “I dunno, Niall. I understood naught of her words, but I know in my heart she asked for my help. Honor demands I give it.”

  “Please, Ciaran, let me take her to Siobhan,” the older man pleaded.

  Ciaran bristled. “Nay, Niall, no other man will touch her.” Snarling, he whipped off his mantle and wrapped it around the shivering girl. He scooped her into his arms and strode to his horse. Holding her in one arm, Ciaran stepped up into the saddle and cradled her across his hard, muscular thighs. “Ride, Niall, and bring your woman.” Ciaran wheeled his stallion, shouting to his men to bring the peasants to the castle. He galloped off, leaving the others in the dust cloud his horse’s hooves kicked up.

  ****

  “What happened? You said she would not remember,” the female accused.

  “She won’t. He came too soon. The transition was not yet finished,” he explained.

  “They are tied, yet he would have killed her.”

  “Nay, I would have stayed his hand if he had not.”

  “Who are you?”

  The two voices stilled at the intrusion of the third.

  “Who are you?” Becca demanded again.

  Silence.

  ****

  “Shush, cailín,” Siobhan crooned, brushing the tangled hair back from the woman’s face. She winced as she examined the results of the savage beating. “You’ve been hard used, little one, but you are safe now here at Caisel Ailfenn. Ciaran, An Taoiseac of Clann MacDermot, has granted you protection.”

  The girl moaned again, the words she muttered strange to Siobhan’s ears. Young, yet no child this one and as near as she could tell, the girl was still a maiden. Odd that a man would use her so terribly yet would not drink from that cup. Siobhan cleaned her with a soft, wet rag, clucking over the cuts and welts lacing every inch of girl’s body. Her nails were torn and bloody, her knuckles covered with cuts and bruises. This one had fought hard.

  Every jostling movement the MacDermot made bringing her up to his chamber caused spasms of pain to ripple through the girl’s body. To spare her more distress, Siobhan left her naked beneath the down coverlet. The stranger’s soft sigh filled the room before she finally succumbed to the gentle hand of deep sleep.

  Siobhan rinsed the rag, her mouth grim as she noted the dark red tinge to the water in the basin. She knew the two men waited in the hallway, both anxious for news. Tiptoeing across the room, she cracked open the door. “Yee can come in, but if yee disturb the wee one’s sleep, I’ll box yer ears,” she hissed.

  Niall grimaced at her impertinence, but Ciaran ignored her, shoving through the door before the other man moved. Ciaran strode across the room and halted beside his bed, staring at the strange woman. As he reached for the coverlet, she tried to stop him. Niall grabbed her around the waist to keep her from interfering and held her tightly against his side. Ciaran ripped the coverlet back. His face registered shock and she watched him swallow slowly.

  “Someone wanted to kill her.” He growled the words, his revulsion at the brutality of the attack plain on his face.

  Siobhan watched him, the play of emotions a stark reminder of his role as clann chief, but he was also a man. His body’s reaction to the girl’s predicament surprised her only slightly.

  “She fought him.” Her blunt statement startled both men.

  “Say again, woman?” Niall demanded.

  “She fought him,” she repeated louder. “Look at her hands. She clawed and hit, and very probably bit as well. Find the man with her marks all over him, and you’ll find your culprit.”

  Niall started to speak but had to clear his throat to get the words out. “Was she forced?”

  Siobhan shook her head, not surprised the men would want to know. “Not that I can tell. She had neither blood nor seed spilling from there.” She pushed past them and pulled the covers up to the woman’s chin, clucking under her breath the whole time. The McDermot was handsome enough to turn the heads of every woman between the ages of six and the grave. As his full lips quirked in a grin fit for Abhean, the faerie piper himself, she wondered why Ciaran had never taken anyone to his be
d.

  “All right, mother hen,” Ciaran chuckled. “I’ll not be beddin’ her ’til she’s healed.”

  Not at all intimidated by the man who held the power of life or death over them all, Siobhan faced him down, a bit amused he’d lost his embarrassment so quickly. With her hands firmly planted on her hips, she scolded him. “You’ll not be beddin’ her a’tall, Taoiseac, not ’til she’s wishin’ yee to.”

  Niall gulped and stepped between her and Ciaran. He loved her and she knew he would die to protect her. His hand on her arm squeezed, a warning to keep her sassy tongue to herself. He relaxed his grip when Ciaran guffawed.

  “Oh, aye,” Ciaran chuckled, his grin smug and self-confident. “She’ll be wishin’ it right enough.” He leered at her as he grabbed his groin and adjusted his boidín to a more comfortable position.

  She snorted, her disdain evident in the inelegant sound. “Away with yee both,” she snapped. “Let the cailín sleep. ’Tis the only thing will help her now.” She shooed the men out of the room and shut the door behind.

  Out in the hallway, Niall and Ciaran exchanged glances. That the cailín had marked her attackers cleared the two men cowering under guard in the great hall. Ragged and dirty, they probably would have ill-used her before finishing her off, but they carried no scratches or bruises upon their faces or arms to prove they’d started this strange affair.

  While Niall dealt with the two peasants, Ciaran retreated to his den beneath the stairs. He poked the smoldering fire to life and settled heavily into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. He prodded at the puzzle of the girl much like he’d done to stir up the fire. Heat pooled low in his groin. Her nakedness aroused more than compassion or pity. Despite her tortured and abused body, the sight of her lying naked in his bed made him rock hard. No cailín ever affected him this way. That her battered body had the power to do so completely terrified him. A man of honor and virtue, he’d sworn to protect his people. Lust, and visions of the things he wanted to do to her and with her, churned his gut. Had he gone mad?

  Niall returned, carrying mugs of rich brown ale. He settled in the other chair, and they sipped their drinks, silently watching the fire, each lost in his own thoughts. A troubled expression settled on Niall’s face. Ciaran cocked an eyebrow in question. When Niall didn’t speak, he broke the silence. “What?”

  The older man stared into the fire, as if he hoped to find the answer in the flames. A long moment later, he spoke. “How? You must have left soon after me. How did you know where to find her?”

  Now it was his turn to stare into the fire as he sought the words to explain. “I was pulled.”

  “Pulled?”

  He nodded. “Aye. My heart knew where to find her. My head knew she was in danger. I roused the troop.” He shrugged. “Who is she, Niall?”

  Neither man had the answer to that one. The fire slowly burned down to glowing embers. He barely noticed when Niall eventually left. He bedded down on the floor in front of the fire. Wrapped up in his mantle, he tried to clear his mind for sleep—not an easy task with the cailín asleep in his bed upstairs.

  ****

  Ciaran stood watching from the doorway. Three days had passed since he’d brought her home. When he’d come to check on the girl earlier that morning, he’d been angry to find his best wolfhound up on the bed with her, sleeping peacefully. The bloody thing actually growled at him. Bemused and hating to disturb the girl, he closed the door and left the dog where it was. His hounds were a rough-and-tumble lot, used to hunting and life bivouacking with his soldiers. Now he discovered his beastie had a soft spot and would probably leave fleas in his bed to boot. He watched the big dog snuggle closer to the girl, and his gut tightened with jealousy. He wisely refrained from marching into the room to shove the dog away and take his place. He wanted, nay needed, to make a good impression on this girl.

  “What a good boy you are,” the cailín crooned.

  He couldn’t believe the big dolt actually licked her face. She must be a witch. Bhruic, aptly named for his badger-like temperament, favored no one and barely tolerated Ciaran, yet the bloody cur lapped her face like…like… Ciaran was at a complete loss for words. He suddenly realized the girl was staring at him. A soft growl rumbled deep in the dog’s chest. “’Tis not her should be afraid of me,” he growled back at the dog.

  “If I knew no better, I’d say yee were a wee bit jealous of him,” Siobhan all but purred at him.

  Ciaran stared at the girl’s face. What would she look like once the bruises healed? Her dark lashes were long and thick, but the purple bruises around them overshadowed her silvery-blue eyes. Her right cheek was swollen and an angry red lump marred her left jaw. Her hair remained a snarled mess. His fingers curled into his palms, aching to comb through the blonde tangle. He wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and kiss the bruises until they were gone.

  “How are yee feelin’?” Surely, he sounded more in control than he felt.

  “Like she’s been dragged behind a team of wild horses.” Siobhan sniffed as she pushed past him, a steaming basin in her hands. “Be gone with yee.” She tossed the words over her shoulder. “An’ take your great brute of a beastie with yee. Dogs in bed with people,” she groused. “Just ’tisn’t right.”

  He’d lost this skirmish, so Ciaran retreated backwards only to be met at the door by Niall. He grabbed the older man’s arm and in a conspirator’s voice asked, “You actually live with that woman as your wife?” His eyes danced with mischievous lights.

  Niall grinned lewdly at the question and ducked his head to answer, “Yes.” Niall winked as he leered appreciatively at his wife’s backside when she bent over the bed.

  She ignored them.

  “She does have some attributes to make up for her tongue,” he admitted. His wagging eyebrows danced a jig with his smug smile.

  “You should teach her to put that tongue to better use,” he suggested with far too much male conceit.

  “Oh, I have, Ciaran, I have.” Niall’s chest puffed up.

  The men grinned at each other, sharing thoughts only men seem to share. At Siobhan’s derisive snort, they retreated downstairs and made their way to the kitchen. Ciaran was hungry though he admitted more than the lack of food made his belly clench.

  Upstairs, Siobhan gently cleaned the girl’s wounds. Crushed herbs and flowers in the water helped take the sting out. “Have yee a name, cailín?”

  Colleen? Rebecca almost chuckled. She hadn’t been a colleen for most of her life. She was old, half a century. “Rebecca.”

  “Well, Becca, if you feel up to it, shove that bloody brute away and sit up. I’ll try to comb the tangles from yer hair.”

  Rebecca flashed the woman a puzzled glance. Her head had been shaved in the emergency room after the accident and since then, she’d spent so much time in bed, she kept her hair cropped short so it didn’t tangle. She raised a curious hand and discovered she had hair falling below her shoulders. She combed her fingers through part of it, but they caught and tangled in a knot of leaves and twigs.

  Rebecca closed her eyes as the woman combed through the knots in her hair. When she’d awakened, she’d laid very still, afraid to move, afraid to open her eyes, almost afraid to breathe. She’d thought she was back in her bed until she patted the covers and discovered a warm body stretched out next to her. She bit back a scream as warm breath and a low growl tickled her ear. With her heart thudding in her chest, she’d opened one eye to peek. A huge wolfhound, his gray head as large as her own, laid beside her, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. His warm brown eyes watched her intently. When she rubbed his chest, he fell over on her, his back leg scratching in ecstasy. That’s when she looked up and saw the man standing in the doorway.

  Almost an hour later, her head sore and aching from the combing, the woman bade her lie down again.

  “I’ll be back in a short, sweet, with a potion for yer pain.”

  Rebecca lay back against th
e pillow, thoroughly confused. She didn’t own a dog, yet the giant wolfhound still stretched across the foot of her bed. Only, as she looked around, she realized this wasn’t her bed. Or her room. Was she dreaming again? Had she relapsed and had the doctors disobeyed her orders about drugs? This dream vaguely reminded her of the one time she’d eased the pain with morphine. The drug was named after Morpheus, Greek god of dreams, for a reason. Hers had been a psychedelic trip, and she feared a repeat performance. This time she was stuck in some medieval castle. At least, she thought it was medieval. What did she know? And who was the young man in the doorway jealously watching the dog, looking as if he had every right to be lying next to her instead? He was gorgeous, she admitted, surprised her middle-aged brain had conjured such a hunk. Black hair, stormy blue eyes, broad shoulders that went from here to there... He had to be a dream.

  Well, she’d wanted to sleep forever. Maybe God finally decided to grant her wish. “Ah, to sleep...perchance to dream,” she murmured, drifting off.

  Chapter Two

  Ciaran cracked the door open. He held his breath to keep it from completely escaping his body. She lay on her side, her face turned from him. The sun spilling in through the high window danced over her silken hair, turning it to spun gold and silver. He wanted to bury his hands in its glorious folds. Only supreme will kept him rooted by the door. Bhruic was gone, but two other hounds had taken his place, as well as a tiny bit of fur Ciaran didn’t want to think about. One of the kits that chased the mice and rats from his storerooms had found its way to the cailín’s side. He was amazed. That small bit of fluff felt perfectly safe sleeping within inches of two of his more savage hounds. Perhaps the cailín truly was a witch. He knew for certain she’d bewitched him. He silently shut the door and retreated to his den. There he could safely drink some whiskey, muse about the strange cailín now sleeping in his bed, and wonder why she affected him so deeply.

  Aralt, his father, had been one to enjoy all the pleasures being clann chief granted. He’d spilled his seed often and indiscriminately, yet only begot one child. Ciaran. The MacDermot had never even handfasted with Ciaran’s mother, nor with any other. At least the old wolf had enough honor—he didn’t inflict his rampant womanizing on a wife. After Ciaran was born, the MacDermot ordered mother and babe to the castle. He gazed upon his only offspring and pronounced the child his heir before sending them to a crofter’s hut outside the castle gate. Aralt promptly forgot about them both while he continued his wanton ways.