The Princess and the Laird

by C. A. Szarek

  “I won’t make you get rid of your human.”

  “What?” she blurted. She fought the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. So far, she’d denied every reference to Alex. She cursed her inability to hide her shock.

  “I don’t expect you to remain faithful to me, so long as you regard me with the same…understanding…and employ discretion.”

  She blinked.

  What a scoundrel.

  Seamus was the worst. Taking a lover, or lovers, before being wed was one thing, but marriage in the Fae Realm expected monogamy. All contracts spoke to as much, as well as all outside dalliances being outlawed, and were punishable by the king if the injured spouse presented evidence.

  Society, nobles and peasants alike, lived by these rules. On the occasion a third—or more—bed partner was desired, all parties had to agree, and it was generally a joint effort, not one person taking a new lover. They even had designated mediators for such instances, if the married couple desired.

  Alana would die before she’d give herself to him. If she hadn’t been sure about that before, she was now. “Oh, well then how could you ensure your heirs are yours indeed, my dear prince?”

  He chuckled, and she wanted to vomit at the charming twinkle in his emerald eyes. “I do not worry on it much. My rival isn’t worthy.”

  He means Alex.

  So he didn’t even care if she was innocent. Probably assumed she and Alex were already lovers. Somehow that made her detest him even more. Alana opened her mouth to speak, but Seamus beat her to it.

  “If you disappear for more than a day, I shall tell my father-by-marriage that I’m being cuckolded by a human. I will, of course, be properly appalled and wounded that you would seek a dalliance after our betrothal or marriage. With a human, no less. What an embarrassment for the Scottish Court and King Fillan.”

  “Seamus—”

  He held his hand up. “I’m not finished, my sweet princess.”

  Alana glared.

  “I will lead the army not only to wipe out your beloved, but his whole clan. The walls of Dunvegan would be easily breeched by Fae weapons even in a realm that is not ours and where magic is diminished.” He sat taller, and his green eyes were like hard emeralds.

  Ice crawled down her spine at his even, serious tone. She swallowed and her insides wobbled.

  “You know your father as I do. His bloodthirstiness has no end, especially where humans are concerned.”

  “Seamus—”

  “Every. Last. Wee. MacLeod.”

  No matter how Alana told herself not to show a reaction, it didn’t stop how she jolted on her feet by his bed. Her frigid flush went across her chest, down her limbs to her toes and she gritted her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. So she didn’t sway or fall over.

  She wanted to reach out and steady herself, but the bedpost was the closest solid object and she wouldn’t touch it or show that kind of weakness in front of the bastard. Or risk getting closer to him.

  Alana wanted to claw his eyes out when a slow evil smile spread on his lips.

  “You and I have come to an understanding.” The prince’s voice was smug and he reclined into his many pillows. His body reeked of arrogance and triumph. And he was still very exposed.

  “I-I-I…” She cleared her throat and tried again, clenching her fists at her sides so she didn’t attack him. “Haven’t said anything.” Her words still came out cracked and she fought a wince.

  “You don’t have to. It’s not open for negotiation.” He beamed, then leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. “Oh, and it extends to however long it takes until you call me husband, and even after that. I don’t care if you keep your human, but I shall have you as well. As mine. My wife, my queen. Something the laird will never have.”

  Do not cry, beg, or kill him. Act indifferent.

  Alana cleared her throat again, tilted her chin up and reached for an expression of haughtiness. “Very well. I shall tell my father I wish to marry you.” She had to swallow so she wouldn’t vomit. “Just ensure that you employ the same discretion you expect of me when it comes to trysts.” She thumbed her chest. “If not, be assured I can also act more than appropriately injured that you would dare be unfaithful to me. As you so aptly pointed out, my father has a tendency toward bloodthirstiness, and being a Crown Prince won’t save you if you harm Da’s wee lassie’s tender feelings.”

  That was laughable, really. Her father wouldn’t give a dungeon rat’s shite if her feelings were hurt. He would, however, kill any man who dared violate a contract with him, and Prince Seamus would be no exception.

  She took a breath and looked away from the scoundrel, then turned on her heel and left the room without a word, scowling at his parting laughter.

  Somehow, even though her reasons were valid—to protect Alex—and she had no intention of actually marrying Seamus, Alana had never sunk lower in her life. Her heart resided in her gut with no hope of returning to where it belonged. Her whole body hurt.

  After opening the door, she fell into Xander, unable to hold back her sobs.

  Thank the Goddess her cousin caught her up and carried her off before anyone could spot them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “‘Tis done.” The pleased smile on her father’s face only made her feel more morose.

  Actually, make that hopeless. Desperate.

  Alana wanted Alex. Now.

  The swirling guilt plunged her to feeling ten times worse, and made it rather difficult to plaster a smile on her face for her audience.

  Irish and Scottish scribes, royal bodyguards, Seamus, her father and his, were all in the lavish throne room King Fillan used when he was trying to be most impressive.

  King Ciaran had blinked back to Scotland for the momentous occasion.

  It’d been two days since she’d agreed to this subterfuge, and Alana had regretted it every second since leaving the stupid prince’s guest suite.

  “Our children will marry!” the Irish King exclaimed. He patted her father on the back and the two royals exchanged overly satisfied smiles.

  Like they’d each won a huge bene over each other.

  They hadn’t started the marriage contract negotiations just yet—this one was merely betrothal, declaring they would enter talks of a permanent bond and alliance—so they both probably had grand plans to pull the wool over their opponent.

  Her father’s violet eyes—a match for her own—positively sparkled. His hair, also the same pale blonde of her own, was gathered in a neat tail bound with the finest leather at the back of his neck, and reached down to his waist. Of course, he looked younger than his one hundred odd years, and he was a big man like her cousin.

  In years past, he’d been known as a fierce warrior king, but the less he battled, the more his midsection had filled out. That didn’t seem to dim female attention. Most women thought him handsome, and he’d had no shortage of lovers since her mother’s passing, despite the weight gain. His personality still boomed, but he was too cruel. Always had been. Ruthlessness was ingrained.

  Seamus caught her eye and winked as his father shook his hand.

  She told herself she could not glare at either of them.

  Like her, the Irish Prince resembled his sire, including the dimples, except King Ciaran had blue eyes instead of green. He was tall, but didn’t have as much muscle as his son, so he was slender. He was older than King Fillan, by many years. His ebony locks were graying at the temples. He’d been a young King of Ireland when Alana’s grandsire still reigned over the Scottish Fae Court, before her birth.

  Also like her, Seamus’ mother had long since passed, but at least the Irish queen hadn’t had to grieve over what a useless rake her son was.

  Xander’s gaze was serene as her eyes rested on him, but there was no hiding the slight quake in his iridescent wings or the white knuckled grip he had from time to time on his sword’s hilt.

  Alana had already seen him release the hold and square his shoulders a few times—as if h
e’d caught himself doing so and thought it better to seem indifferent.

  After all, his status really didn’t give him the right to an opinion as to whom she’d marry. Nor would he want anyone to know he was less than pleased about the forced agreement.

  For now.

  She reinforced her mind-block spell. None of her present company—save the stupid prince—could discover her true feelings on the matter at hand, either.

  “Daughter, I am so proud of you.”

  She sucked back a cringe and ordered herself to meet King Fillan’s eyes.

  Proud of me?

  That was certainly a first.

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” she whispered and curtseyed, as decorum dictated. Alana tried not to startle when her father cupped her cheeks and urged her to look up at him again. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched her. The hold didn’t hurt, but she wanted to squirm nonetheless.

  His smile was genuine—and rare, which just turned her stomach even more. “Thank you, and your fine prince for initiating an alliance I am most pleased will finally be in place.”

  She could feel Seamus beam at her side and wanted to retch on his fancy shoes.

  “I am pleased my dear sweet princess will have me.” The scoundrel bowed; his voice and manner humble.

  Bile burned her throat and Alana fought through her urges.

  King Ciaran said something that made the men laugh and the scribes grin, but their deep voices faded in and out as the opulent room spun.

  Glinting jewels became streaks of light in her line of sight. She wobbled on her feet to a chorus of “Your Highness!” but her vision darkened, and blackness crept in on her.

  Alana lost control of her body and cringed, expecting the hard marble to greet her behind.

  Instead, she was enclosed against a wall of muscled chest by two solid arms. “It appears my lovely betrothed is overwrought from all the excitement.”

  She groaned. Didn’t want to open her eyes.

  Would’ve have preferred bruises from the floor to his embrace.

  She was in Seamus’ arms. Insects crawled down her spine and gooseflesh pebbled her arms. She needed to hold together for show.

  Where’s Xander?

  “My dear, are you well?” Her father’s voice held concern—and didn’t that make her want to look at him to see if it was real.

  She put her hand to her forehead, shuttering her gaze. “Perhaps my prince is correct, and I should lie down.”

  “Shall I call a healer?” one of the scribes asked.

  “Nay, nay. I shall be fine. Xander.”

  Her cousin was stopped by a headshake and wide smile from her stupid betrothed. “Nay, Sir Xander, I’ve got her. I shall see her to her suite.”

  Please don’t. “You can put me down. I can go on my own.”

  Seamus laughed and she wanted to glare.

  Xander gave a helpless half-shrug when their gazes brushed, and his wings jerked, betraying his irritation despite his expression.

  Damn Seamus!

  “Don’t be silly, my love, I’ve got you.”

  Alana really wanted to vomit now. Would he put her down if she covered his chest in half-digested breakfast? “Very well,” she gritted out. It sounded as weak as she felt, and not because she’d worked herself up so much she’d almost passed out.

  She didn’t want to accept the guilt and negativity that’d caused her lightheadedness, but being in Seamus’ arms made it worse, even if it wasn’t her choice. Nausea was a live, writhing thing in her gut.

  “Do feel better, daughter, you must attend your betrothal feast.”

  Of course, because King Fillan wouldn’t be able to stand the gossip if she didn’t.

  Appearances, appearances.

  “Of course, your Majesty. I’m sure I’ll be better after a lie-down.”

  Other male voices murmured well-wishes but they all faded as the idiot prince carried her from the vast room, her cousin on his heels.

  * * * *

  She waited until late into the night.

  Alana needed to ensure the celebration from her betrothal feast had died down, and that all guests had gone home or were tucked into their borrowed beds.

  Not to mention her father, her betrothed, and her cousin.

  Luckily for her, the king and Seamus had gotten quite inebriated in the great hall. Even if her father hadn’t retired alone, he had hours of sleeping off the drink in his future.

  This time, she was leaving Xander behind, so she hoped he was curled up with Gwynna and not the least bit concerned with her.

  “Speaking of beds—” she whispered to her empty room.

  Alana said a spellword and her blankets lifted, as if covering someone, and the shape of a female form lying on its side appeared, complete with a blonde head on her pillows.

  It was just an illusion; if someone went to touch it, their hand would go straight through, but it did resemble her perfectly.

  She smiled at her handiwork and conjured her purple mantle. The silky material settled over her body of its own accord and she tugged the hood up, tucking her hair inside before knotting the ties at her neck to keep it in place.

  Alana needed to be quick and quiet, and would use her Irish Fae Warrior glamour-spelled figure when she got to the Field of Light.

  She could only pray to the Goddess the scheme would work without Xander. She already had a sealed scroll in her possession, and she tucked it into the pocket of her trews.

  The journey through the tunnels was stealthy and silent, and this time she relished the earthy scent surrounding her because it meant she was close to freedom. Normally the musky odor bothered her senses, but not tonight. She wanted to cling to it with both hands.

  When she spilled out into the forest, she ran away from her home until her chest was tight. Couldn’t risk blinking so close to the palace.

  Being the warrior king he was, her father was paranoid, and had mages on duty at all hours, in addition to his multitude of men-at-arms. Their orders were to sense magical threats. Her teleporting power wasn’t nefarious, but it would be detectable.

  Forested areas thickened and thinned as she ran through a few clearings, then more wooded areas, but she had to stop when her lungs burned.

  There were commoner settlements high above in some of the trees, so she needed to push past them as well. The older and larger the tree, the more likelihood it contained a home, and there were a cluster of villages in the vast groves that surrounded the palace, complete with their brightly painted round doors and wide porches.

  Alana couldn’t afford for anyone to see her.

  She leaned heavily on a big, blue-barked Sùbh tree, panting to catch her breath. She looked around, but this copse was thick and the canopy blocked the light of the moon, so it was too dark for her eyes to penetrate much.

  Insects called to each other, but there was no movement she could sense. Even the woodland creatures were in their beds.

  She could smell the sweet round fruit hanging overhead and her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t managed more than a bite at the betrothal feast. She’d been in knots, and if she had eaten, she would’ve thrown up all over the great hall.

  Even though Alana had had witnesses to her almost-fainting spell that morning, her father would never have accepted such embarrassment, or believed she was actually ill.

  When Xander had escorted her to the great hall for the feast, after her sobbing fit—she hadn’t gotten a wink of rest when she’d tried to nap—King Fillan had done little else than nod, and compliment her lavish gown.

  He hadn’t asked if she was well, but King Ciaran had. As far as her father was concerned, she’d done one good deed, and he had no more need of her—until she raised his ire again. Undoubtedly she would, she always did.

  Alana had donned the same dress she’d worn to the Beltane celebration, at the risk of all the courtiers gossiping about its reappearance after so recently being worn. They would talk. She didn’t care.

 
; It’d been too much of a challenge not to look as miserable as she felt as she’d endured hours of unwanted conversation and congratulations, not to mention dancing with all the lords. Concentrating on looking passably happy had made her not the least bit worried about nattering ladies.

  She’d had to survive a spin on the floor with her betrothed, too. Worse, it’d been a slow love ballad that’d had her stomach again poised to empty. Seamus had held her close and put his hands in less than polite places. Alana shuddered, trying to banish the memory.

  One glance up told her the heavy pink orbs were ripe. The artificial weather was warm and lush enough to encourage the trees a year-round harvest. Perhaps that was the one good thing about it.

  She muttered a summoning spellword and heard a snap, then put her palm out. Firm but juicy flesh smacked into her palm and she dug in without peeling it.

  “Hmmm.” Tangy flavor exploded on her tongue and she reminded herself to chew before taking two more huge, unprincesslike bites.

  She devoured the whole thing, seeds and all, and then another, even bigger than the first. She was tempted to eat more, but didn’t have time. Needed to get moving, couldn’t risk being gone all night, and she only had three—four at most—hours until the sun was up.

  Alana would need to be back in her own bed before the palace awoke. Rannick had taken to greeting her every morning, earlier than Xander brought her breakfast.

  Although, now that she was betrothed, her father had removed all restrictions, so she could leave her suite and break her fast in the great hall if she so chose. She wouldn’t want to see Seamus, so her rooms remained the better option. Stay hidden and away from him.

  She ran into a clearing and glanced around. The whirling colors the magic stones that made up the palace gave off a glow in the night brighter than the moonlight, but were barely visible on the horizon. Alana was far enough away to blink.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and concentrated on her destination. She pictured the dais holding the Faery Stones and closed her eyes. Then she blinked to the woods at the edge of the Field of Light.