“Not if they keep feeding their puppy, they won’t,” she said, watching Jamie wiggle his sugar-coated fingers under the table.
“Their da will put a stop to it soon enough. Has Rory thanked ye fer the demon’s present yet?”
Syrena lifted the goblet of mead to her lips and glanced at Rory, who was talking to Fergus. Rory’s arm draped over the back of his wife’s chair, he absently stroked Aileanna’s shoulder. “Thanks would be overstating the sentiment,” she said before taking a sip of the sweetened wine. She had dreaded making an appearance despite Aidan’s valiant attempt to alleviate her embarrassment. But neither Rory nor Fergus had made her feel awkward. If anything, they’d put her completely at ease. Until the subject of her present to the twins came up, then Rory had gritted his teeth when Aileanna browbeat him into thanking her.
Alex nudged her. “Look, princess.” He giggled, the dog lapping at his fingers.
She smiled. “Careful, he might get sick from all the sweets.”
Aidan laughed and leaned across her to speak to Alex, “Doona mind yer aunt, she’s afraid ye’ll have no cake left to share with her is all.”
“That’s not true.” She looked at Aidan and got tangled up in his laughing eyes, the heat of his shoulder brushing against her arm. She’d never imagined he would look at her in that way again. She didn’t know what was happening between them. She was afraid to hope that they shared more than a passionate interlude, afraid to lower her defenses, although she didn’t know if she had any left. Not after he’d held her in his arms and assured her he wanted her. She lowered her gaze from his and shrugged. “Maybe, just a little.”
Alasdair regarded her over Alex’s head. “Did the bairn call ye princess?”
Aileanna glanced up from admonishing Jamie. “Aye, he did, Da. ’Tis Aidan’s pet name for her.” Aileanna caught Syrena’s eye and shrugged.
Her father quirked a brow. “Treats ye like a princess, does he?”
A prickly heat worked its way from her chest to her cheeks. The last thing she wanted was for Aidan to be reminded of who she was, not that he was likely to forget, but if she could avoid it, she would. Before she could respond, Aidan answered for her.
“Of course I do, doona I, princess?” The way he said “princess,” in his deep raspy voice, was as much a caress as his big hand resting at the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking her fluttering pulse.
Alasdair eyed the two of them, then announced, “I think ’tis time fer ye to wed.”
She felt the imperceptible tightening of Aidan’s fingers and swallowed.
“I would agree with ye, Alasdair, but Syrena and I are headin’ fer London,” Aidan informed him. Slowly drawing his hand from her neck, he reached for his goblet. His knuckles whitened from the force of his grip.
“London? Why would ye be goin’ to London? They’ve only recently got the plague under control.”
“Plague?” Syrena asked. A tremor raced up her spine at the thought Lachlan could have contracted the scourge. Illnesses that affected the Mortals had been much debated in the Enchanted Isles, especially when they thought her inability to do magick was the result of a disease. Her pounding heart calmed when she remembered Uscias’s pronouncement that the Fae were immune to illnesses the Mortals so easily succumbed to. Her brother was half-Fae. Hopefully that would be enough to protect him.
“Aye, it broke out during James’s Coronation last July—”
Rory, who’d turned from his conversation with Fergus, interrupted Alasdair, “Doona fash yerself, Syrena. I’ve heard from my acquaintances that everythin’ has calmed over the last months.”
Syrena appreciated Rory’s attempt to reassure her that Lachlan was safe, at least from the plague. Alex and Jamie turned mutinous expressions upon her. “We doona want you to go,” Alex protested.
“Aye, let Uncle Aidan go by hisself,” Jamie added.
Aidan lifted a sardonic brow and tipped his goblet at the twins. “I’ll miss ye, too.”
Aileanna tousled her son’s fair hair. “We don’t want either Auntie Syrena or Uncle Aidan to go, but they have to find Uncle Lachlan. When they do, they’ll come here before returning to Lewes.”
“Ye will?” Alex asked Syrena.
Unable to resist the pleading look in his bright blue eyes, Syrena said, “Of course I will.” And she realized how very much she wanted to. And just how much the MacLeod family had come to mean to her. She kept her gaze averted from Aidan’s, afraid of what she might see there.
“Well, that settles it. Ye’ll have to wed on the morrow,” Lord MacDonald pronounced.
“Da, I—”
“Doona argue with me, Aileanna. The lass is no’ leavin’ Dunvegan until I see her properly wed.”
Aidan cursed quietly beside her while Fergus and Rory appeared to be having difficulty containing their mirth. Obviously they would receive no help from that end of the table. “I appreciate your concerns, Laird MacDonald, but I—”
The older man reached over and patted her hand. “Ye let me take care of this, pet. ’Tis no’ somethin’ a lass needs to concern herself with.”
“Alasdair, I appreciate the sentiments, but there’s no time, we leave on the morrow,” Aidan protested, a muscle pulsating in his jaw.
Lord MacDonald sighed. “There’s no help fer it then, ye’ll have to do as my daughter did. Ye and yer cousin Rory are two of a kind,” he muttered. Obviously not a favorable comparison, at least as far as Alasdair was concerned. “The two of ye stand up,” he ordered Aidan and Syrena. His tone brooked no disagreement.
He banged his goblet on the long table, the contents spilling onto the white cloth, then bellowed above the chatter of the men and women seated in the grand hall. “Good people, I need yer attention fer a moment. I’m callin’ upon ye to witness the marriage between Aidan MacLeod and Syrena . . . What’s yer family name, lass?”
“Rory,” Aidan growled, slowly coming to his feet.
A heated wave swamped Syrena.
“Uh . . . uh . . . LaFae. Her family name is LaFae,”Aileanna chimed in, elbowing her husband when he snorted a laugh.
“LaFae, is it? I didna ken ye were French. Ah, well, so be it.” He turned back to the fifty or so people gathered around the rows of tables. “The union of Aidan MacLeod and Syrena LaFae. Syrena LaFae, do ye take Aidan MacLeod fer yer husband?”
She looked at Aidan, his focus on something beyond her. She didn’t know what he wanted her to do. His beautiful face was an inscrutable mask as he stood stiffly beside her. A dull ache radiated from her chest to her throat; her gown felt three sizes too small. Sensing Alasdair’s growing impatience, everyone waiting for her to speak, she swallowed and said, “Yes.”
Lord MacDonald nodded then regarded Aidan sternly from beneath his silvery brows. “And ye, Aidan MacLeod, do ye take Syrena LaFae to be yer wife?”
Aidan sent his gaze to the ceiling and shook his head. Syrena thought her heart would stop. Mortified, she felt like crawling beneath the table. Through a blur, she watched the men and women of Dunvegan shift uncomfortably on the benches.
Alasdair cleared his throat, drawing Aidan’s attention to her. How could he do this? If the idea of marrying her was so distasteful, why could he not have told Alasdair before, instead of humiliating her now? And why didn’t you? she asked herself. But she knew the reason. Deep down inside, her foolish hopes lived on.
She blinked back tears, her throat so tight she struggled to breathe. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now.
Aidan’s gaze softened. He brought his hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear she didn’t realize had fallen. “Aye, I’ll take her fer my wife. Are ye satisfied now, MacDonald?” Aidan didn’t wait for Alasdair’s response. He tugged Syrena into his arms and brushed her lips with his. His kiss was gentle, a soothing balm to her savaged emotions. And in that moment, held close in his powerful embrace, she almost believed her long-ago dreams might actually come true.
“Mam, will Auntie Syrena get a bairn in her bel
ly like ye?” Jamie asked loudly.
His mother groaned. “Jamie, that was supposed to be a secret.”
“Is it true, Aileanna? Are ye with child?” her father asked.
“Aye,” Aileanna admitted reluctantly. “But we’ll talk of it later. ’Tis time to toast Syrena and Aidan.”
Aidan’s hand dropped, and he set Syrena aside. His jaw was set in a hard line, his expression shuttered. “Nay, Aileanna, I apologize, but I have much to see to if Syrena and I are to leave on the morrow.” That said, he strode from the dais.
Chapter 19
Syrena’s hardnosed silence grated on Aidan’s nerves. They were half-a-day’s ride from Dunvegan, and she’d yet to say a word to him. He’d heard her sniffling after her tearful goodbyes to the bairns and Aileanna, but he didn’t credit her sorrow with her sullen disposition.
Nay, he was all but certain his abrupt departure from the celebration and his absence from the marriage bed were the reasons for her terse responses whenever he attempted to make conversation.
He supposed he owed her an apology, some form of explanation, but he couldn’t bring himself to give her one. He couldn’t speak to her of the panic that all but consumed him at Jamie’s mention of a bairn.
When they’d made love, Aidan had been consumed by his desire for her. Lost in her perfection, drowning in a tumultuous sea of tenderness at the gift of her innocence, he had spilled his seed inside her. Something he’d never allowed himself to do before. No other woman had caused him to lose control like she did. And the thought she could be carrying his child—a child who would be half-Fae—filled him with dread.
A dread born of fear. Fear that he would become his father. A man Aidan had once been honored to be compared to. But all that changed on the night of Lachlan’s birth, on the rain-swept cliffs of Lewes. Aidan worried one day he, too, would be helpless to fight the darkness, unable to get past his hatred of the Fae. And never would he allow an innocent child to suffer as his brother had.
Somehow he had to make Syrena understand without revealing the sordid details of his father’s madness. A madness her father had unleashed, yet he found he no longer held her to blame. She was the opposite of everything Alexander and the old crone proclaimed the Fae to be.
The hulking fair-haired Callum, who brought up the rear of their small contingent alongside Aidan, asked, “Laird MacLeod, do ye wish to set up camp fer the night?”
Watching the sun’s fiery descent over the Cuillins, Aidan nodded. “Aye.”
“I ken gettin’ away close to midmorn was no’ what ye had in mind, Laird MacLeod, but we’ve made good progress. Yer wife, she didna hold us up. She handles a steed as well as she does a sword.”
Aye, Syrena had wreaked havoc with his plans once again, and in more ways than one. No thanks to Alasdair MacDonald—the meddling old fool. But Aidan could do nothing less than agree to the union. He’d taken her innocence. Once she’d been everything he’d wanted in a wife. He couldn’t deny she still was—sweet and innocent, gentle yet strong, and more beautiful than was fair.
He’d seen the vulnerability in her eyes when he’d hesitated. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he’d been torn between the desire to claim her as his, and the need to protect himself from the woman who’d once lied to him, a woman who was Fae. A year ago, she had shattered his illusions and brought his worst fears to light. Now he had to find a way to trust her, for Lan’s sake and his own.
“Nay, she hasna. I suppose I’d best break the news to my bonny wife that we’ll be sleepin’ out of doors this night.” Knowing her as he did, he was certain she’d not be very happy with the arrangement, especially considering the temper she was in. He’d hoped to make it as far as the Mackenzies’ holdings, where he could be certain of their welcome, but it was not going to happen.
Putting his heels to Fin’s flank, he brought his steed alongside Syrena. Connor, who’d been keeping her company, tipped his head and took his leave, joining the three men who rode ahead.
Aidan blew out an exasperated breath when she pointedly ignored him. “I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, so ’twould be best if ye told me what’s troublin’ ye.”
She looked down her nose at him. Her attempt to appear haughty failed miserably. If she had a long aristocratic nose instead of her small upturned one, it might have worked. “I’m not troubled, and we have nothing to discuss.”
“Nay? So ye’re no’ fashed I didna come to ye last night?”
“No. Why would you think such a thing?” She focused on the leather reins gathered tightly in her hands, inspecting them as though they needed to be repaired. But he didn’t miss the compressed line of her mouth.
“I doona ken, mayhap because ye havena said more than two words to me since we left Dunvegan, and ye’re pricklier than a hedgehog.”
“I don’t know what a hedgehog is, but if I am as prickly as one, it is because you insisted I wear this silly gown instead of breeches.” She squinched her upturned nose at the dark green velvet gown she wore.
He shook his head at the memory of her coming down the stairs in a pair of Connor’s breeches and tunic. She’d been none too pleased when he sent her unceremoniously back to her room to change. If it hadn’t been for the MacDonald’s shocked expression, he knew she would have done exactly as she pleased. But her gown had nothing to do with her temper, of that he was certain.
“Ye’re a lady, Syrena, ’tis no’ proper to be outfitted in trews.” He reached over to brush his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “And ’tis no’ the reason ye’re fashed with me, be honest.”
She raised her eyes to his, and he felt himself drowning in pools of liquid gold. “You embarrassed me. Why didn’t you just tell Lord MacDonald you didn’t wish to marry me? Instead, you made a fool of me leaving the celebration as you did. And if that wasn’t bad enough, this morning I was subjected to the maids whispering and tittering how my husband spent his wedding night . . . elsewhere!” Snapping the reins, she urged her mount into a gallop, leaving Aidan in a cloud of dust.
Bloody hell!
“Callum, make camp,” he shouted over his shoulder as he shot past the men gaping after his wife. Callum was right, she rode as well as she fought, mayhap better. By the time he managed to catch up to her, they’d put a fair distance between them and his men.
His temper now matched hers. “Syrena,” he yelled, leaning over to grab the reins from her hands. “If ye have no regard fer yer own life, think of yer mounts.”
She blinked as though awakening from a dream. Looking down at her steed, she grimaced, and snatched the reins from Aidan’s hands. Easing back, she brought her horse to a halt, then slid stiffly to the ground. Aidan dismounted and reached out to steady her. She jerked her arm from his hand. Burying her face in the steed’s neck, she murmured her apologies to the horse.
“Are ye no’ goin’ to apologize to me?” he asked from where he stood behind her.
“For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Nay?” He tugged her into his arms, pressing her back to his chest. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against the silky tangle of her hair. “Ye could’ve been hurt, Syrena, ye’re no’ familiar with the lay of the land.”
She didn’t pull away, but neither did she unbend in his arms. “I ride as well as you. I wasn’t in any danger.”
“I’m no’ disputin’ yer skill in the saddle, just yer lack of common sense.”
“You have no right—”
He spun her around to face him, a firm grip on her upper arms. “I have every right. Ye’re my wife.”
“You don’t even want—”
Framing her face with his hands, he leaned in to kiss her—a deep and possessive kiss. “Aye, I want ye,” he murmured against her lips and felt a slight easing of her resistance. “There was much to do to prepare for our journey. ’Twas late before I finished and I didna wish to disturb ye.” Although not the complete truth, he hoped she would be satisfied with his answer. The last thing he’d meant to do was humili
ate her.
She pulled back and searched his face as though she could find the truth in his eyes. “There’s more to it than that. I felt you pull away after . . . after Jamie asked if I would have—”
He silenced her with a finger pressed to her soft lips. “I ken what the lad asked.” He drew her into the circle of his arms and rested his chin on top of her head, stroking her back. “Let it go fer now, Syrena, please. We have enough with tryin’ to find Lan.”
She nodded and he breathed a sigh of relief. She lifted her head from his chest. “Where are the others? They should have caught up by now.”
“They’re makin’ camp.”
“What do you mean making camp?”
“Just what it sounds like. I imagine they’ll have built the fire and set up yer tent by now.” They had ridden their mounts hard, and not wanting to cause them injury, Aidan handed Syrena her steed’s reins. He took her by the shoulders and set her in the direction of the camp. Her brow furrowed as she walked beside him, then she came to an abrupt halt. “Are you telling me we’re sleeping out of doors . . . on the ground?”
“Aye.” He nodded, trying not to laugh at her horrified expression.
“We’ll freeze to death, and I’ll never be able to sleep with nothing but a hard patch of earth beneath me.”
“Aye, ye will. I’ll tire ye out and then ye can fall asleep on top of me.” Dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose, he promised, “And I’ll keep ye verra, verra warm.”
With a thunderous flap, the tent in which Syrena slept was ripped from its moorings. She came fully awake, blinking into the early morning light with an outraged shriek.
“Sorry, my lady, laird’s orders.” Connor grinned, a lock of hair falling over his laughing green eyes.
To add insult to injury, her husband yanked her from beneath the warm blankets and she shrieked again. “Aidan, you could have warned me. I might have been naked under there,” she growled, keeping her voice low.
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