The Princess and the Laird

by C. A. Szarek

  Would that happen to her?

  Did she care?

  Princess Sima got her man.

  All those years, all the potential lovers, and she’d waited for a human to take her innocence. She’d never let a Fae man’s sex between her legs, no matter how hot his kisses and touches had been. None of those would-be lovers had ever come close to making her feel like Alex did.

  Caution screamed in her mind. The Irish prince was nothing to trifle with. The bastard meant the vows he’d made. Not to mention, her father had formally recognized her betrothal to Seamus. The contract was signed, and he was negotiating the marriage portion of it with the Irish king.

  She needed to tell Alex nay; reiterate the dangers of them being together.

  It was a weight lifted that he knew about Seamus. But…

  There’s no solution yet.

  Alana’s heart galloped as hard as the racing thoughts and fears.

  She loved this man. This human laird.

  If she and Alex were fated, would the Goddess not save them from Seamus? Or Alex’s God?

  She didn’t want to fear the answer, so she let it be and took a breath. It was supposed to calm her so she could answer him, but it made her head spin. “Aye, Alex, I want nothing more than to marry you and be by your side forever.”

  Triumph darted across his face and he looked so hopeful it made her shake beside him. “Truly?”

  Alana bit her bottom lip. “It won’t be easy. I’m trapped…”

  “Ye ease me, Alana.”

  Tears blurred her vision again and he wiped the moisture from her cheeks as it was born for the third time—or was it the hundredth?

  How could he melt her with words that weren’t exactly tender endearments? He did, even without a touch, but that helped, too.

  “You ease me, too. Like no one ever has. But—”

  Alex put two fingers at her lips. “Dinna worry. ‘Twill work itself out.”

  She shook her head and grabbed his hand. “You don’t understand—”

  He narrowed his eyes and fierceness glittered across his expression. “I do understand. Ye tol’ me weel wha’ ‘tis at stake. My family. My clan.”

  “Your lives.”

  He pinned her to him. “I’m no’ afraid ta fight, Alana.”

  Her breath evaporated and her chest ached. “Nay. Alex. I will not let anything happen to you and your people because of me.”

  Alex cupped her cheeks and stared into her eyes.

  Alana swallowed again.

  “I love ye. Ye are worth tha fight.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she shivered in his arms and met his kiss when her love dipped his head down to claim her mouth again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alana avoided Seamus’ gaze as she tried to make herself eat the food on her jewel-encrusted plate, instead of just shoving it around while the two kings and her vile betrothed carried on lively conversation. There was too much come-hither in those emerald depths, and a smugness in the Irish prince’s expression that made her blood boil.

  What does he know?

  Or what did he think he knew?

  Her mind-shields were in full force, so it wasn’t possible he’d gleaned where she’d been all day—at least not from her.

  The three deep voices went on while she played the dutiful speak-when-spoken-to princess. She sucked back a sigh, forcing herself to chew and swallow a piece of meat. After the afternoon of energetic lovemaking with Alex, she really did need to eat.

  Xander hadn’t been surprised about the declarations of love exchanged, but his concern had dimmed her excitement. He hadn’t shouted a denial when she’d told him Alex had asked for her hand, but he had expressed relief that she’d told the human laird about her Seamus-predicament.

  She’d demanded to know why her cousin felt that way, since he wasn’t exactly encouraging her to be with Alex permanently. Her Warrior protector only asserted it was the right thing to do. He hadn’t given judgment—or comment—that she’d told the human laird she would marry him.

  Unfortunately, her cousin could also offer no advice relieving the impossibility of the situation. So, she still had no answer on how she could marry Alex.

  Other than run away and doom the MacLeods, of course.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?” King Ciaran’s blue eyes—so different from a certain laird’s despite the similar hue—were friendly as they gazed at her, but his bushy brows quickly melted together with concern when Alana failed to answer.

  Her father cleared his throat, then three sets of eyes were fixed on her.

  She tried not to fidget. The back of her neck was hot, and her tongue heavy, glued to the roof of her mouth. What had Seamus’ father asked?

  Shite.

  Alana pulled a word from Alex’s repertoire. Should she agree? She had no idea to what, and it would likely cause issues later.

  “Alana?” Her name on her father’s lips was just short of a demand.

  “I’m sorry, Majesties, what was that?” She made her voice was just above a whisper and averted her gaze. Embarrassment edged in closely, eager to eat her alive.

  Seamus laughed—too loudly—and patted her shoulder as if she was his pet.

  Her face flamed again, but she didn’t dare look up or she’d glare at him.

  “My love was daydreaming again. I’m sorry, Father, Your Majesty.” He nodded to both kings. “My sweet princess speaks of little else but our wedding, and no doubt it has her overtaxed. I’m sure she was contemplating tapestry and flower placement, not to mention fine gowns.”

  She clutched the meat knife under the table on her lap to restrain herself from stabbing him, and plastered on a smile then nodded demurely for her father, more than for Seamus’. “Of course. I was contemplating my wedding.” The words came out through gritted teeth, so she held her breath to see if they’d be accepted.

  King Ciaran patted her hand—the one not clutching a weapon—and wore a smile of indulgence. As if she was so silly a female that his son’s words made perfect sense.

  She really wanted to stab the prince.

  Seamus winked.

  Alana had to concentrate not to narrow her eyes. He was up to something, but she didn’t want to guess what. It didn’t bode well for her. The prince enjoyed riling her when she couldn’t respond, so it was best to play the stupid oblivious female anyway. Even if it made her angry.

  Her father knew she was too clever to be convinced, but it appeared for the sake of the Irish King he would play along, too.

  She prayed to the Goddess she wasn’t in for a lecture, later. Nothing was worth a summons to King Fillan’s private ledger room, or worse, a public shaming he was so fond of in his throne room.

  Seamus’ gaze didn’t waver for the rest of the horrid meal. He studied her, with eyes like bright green slits. He kept his arm around her shoulders, but not consistently touching her.

  The prince perched his arm on the back of her chair, gripping the carved ball that rested atop the right spindle from time to time.

  It didn’t escape her peripheral vision that his grasp was white-knuckled, and whenever his arm brushed her, Alana couldn’t help but jump. Her gown was fancy and off-shoulder, so he touched her skin, even though his long sleeve spared her from touching his. Even inches of thick fabric wouldn’t allow her to feel protected from his touch. No amount of material would ever be enough.

  Her stomach churned. Something had happened. The prince had changed from the teasing—annoying—and smug too-attentive betrothed. Something had melted him into anger. She could feel his emotions through her magic, as well as his proximity.

  What did I do to upset him?

  Seamus had declared she could keep Alex, as long as she was discreet—and she had been, so even if he’d guessed where she’d been, why would that raise his ire?

  All evening he’d stared as if he had a secret, and was pleased with himself. Why now was he subtly glaring, as if she was keeping something from him?


  As much as she was curious, Alana dreaded the look in his eye.

  What the hell is wrong?

  Seamus escorted her from her father’s private dining chamber with a too-tight grip on her elbow. His stride, which was much longer than hers, had her practically running to keep up.

  “Seamus, you’re hurting me!”

  Where’s Xander?

  A desperate sweep of the corridor didn’t produce her cousin, nor did her betrothed stop dragging her.

  “Seamus!” She struggled in his grip, but he held her tighter and urged her faster. She was tempted to use a blast-spell on him, but his medallion would protect him. Alana wasn’t fond of the idea of backfired magic hitting her—even if it would get her free. Pain and scorch marks weren’t worth it. “I’m going to scream.”

  He remained undeterred, failed to slow or answer.

  When they made it to her chambers, Rannick narrowed his eyes on them immediately. No doubt the big guard noticed her clipped gait and the hold on her arm. “Your Highness?”

  “Open the door, guard,” Seamus barked.

  The man-at-arms glared, and flexed his grip on the hilt of one of his two oversized swords.

  Alana wished she could order him to free it and lop the prince’s hand off.

  When the prince growled, ice slid down her spine. She’d never heard him speak to castle staff or men-at-arms that way, and she wasn’t keen on being alone with him. Anger radiated from his aura, staining it a menacing crimson. She didn’t even have to concentrate to make it visible.

  He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?

  If he tried, Xander would kill him.

  Rannick’s yellow gaze landed on her, and she gave a slight nod, against her better judgment. Concern furrowed his dark eyebrows, but he obeyed and slid her door open.

  “Get my cousin, please, Rannick.”

  The guard offered a curt nod.

  Alana appreciated his open scowl toward Seamus. Perhaps it was foolish to send him away, but because of the magic soundproofing her suite, Rannick wouldn’t be able to hear her scream, anyway.

  The door was barely closed when the prince whirled on her, invading her personal space, but she wouldn’t allow him to push her against the wall again.

  She grabbed the poker from the fire-tending tool rack on the smaller hearth in her sitting room. She brandished it until the space between their bodies widened.

  He threw his head back and laughed even as he retreated. “You will stab me?”

  Alana squared her stance and held the poker like a sword, as her cousin had shown her years ago. “If you force me to defend myself, I will. What is your issue with me, Your Highness?” she spat the honorific like a curse.

  Seamus smirked and moved closer, but instead of trying to touch her or grab her weapon, he sat on the purple chaise facing her and the fireplace, then crossed his legs. His emerald stare never wavered, and he sat tall, as if on a throne.

  She didn’t relax, but lowered the poker a few inches. Stared right back, fighting the urge to swallow.

  His expression couldn’t mean anything good. Anger simmered below the surface, and he could pop up off her lounger and jump on her. He was stronger, despite her make-shift weapon. He’d proven he could best her strength when he’d pinned her to her own wall. He wasn’t as big as Alex or Xander, but he was muscled like them. Still towered over her.

  “You’ve been naughty, my dear princess.” Seamus’ smile held no humor as it spread across his wide mouth. His voice was low and even, with a deadly edge.

  Unease crawled up her spine and her limbs shook. “Wh-wh-what do you mean?” Alana cursed the shake in her query.

  He whistled. “Did we, or did we not, discuss discretion?”

  She straightened her shoulders and lowered the poker until the tip hit the stone floor with a chink. “Stop speaking in riddles, Seamus,” she barked. Her heart skipped and sped up.

  The prince smiled again, but his eyes were narrowed to slits. “Well, my love, it seems—”

  The door burst open and Xander filled the frame, his sword drawn, wings vibrating. He wore armor, as if he’d come from the fighting yard—or a battle. He took one look at the fire-poker in Alana’s hand and glided into the room, glaring at the prince. “What’s going on here?”

  Seamus stood and brushed himself off as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Alana lifted the poker again, despite her cousin’s much larger sword, and the fact he’d moved in front of her to shield her from her betrothed.

  “Rannick said you put your hands on the princess,” Xander growled, in a tone no one should dare to address a royal with.

  Thank the Goddess he doesn’t care.

  She didn’t either. She wanted to cheer. Or order him to use his huge weapon on Seamus.

  “I’m glad you’ve arrived, Sir Xander,” the prince said, a smile back in place that made her skin prickle.

  His sword never faltered, but her cousin looked from her to Seamus and back, confusion stamped all over his face. “What’s going on here?” he repeated.

  “It seems we’ve got ourselves a predicament,” the prince announced.

  “What are you talking about?” Alana snapped, not hiding the annoyance washing over her. She flexed her fingers on the poker’s curved handle. Bumped it against her thigh a few times.

  Her only predicament was standing in front of her, clad in green from head to foot and now frowning. His hair was long and loose, the dark waves dancing over his shoulders. Handsome as sin, but he was the worst sin she could think of.

  “My hands on our princess should be the least of your worries, Sir Xander.” The prince’s expression was placid, but his eyes flashed and his hands were fisted at his sides. His aura still shouted rage, the red hue throbbing as if Seamus fought to keep himself under control.

  Her cousin shot her a look and arched a fair eyebrow.

  Alana wanted to shrug, but her gut dipped.

  “Alana has broken her vow to me, despite my generosity in allowing her to keep her human.” He spat the last word, as if being human was the worst offense in existence.

  She bristled. “What are you talking about? I’m very discreet.” She didn’t bother pointing out how she’d gained skill at sneaking back and forth between realms; how she’d never been caught…well, after that first time, anyway. It didn’t matter, and it was none of Seamus’ damn business.

  He chuckled, long and deep, and shook his head, making his hair float around him.

  When he pinned her with an intense gaze, she froze. Clutched the poker tight to her side.

  Seamus had never looked at Alana with such…malevolence…in his green eyes. The expression belied his laughter and made her belly somersault. The meager contents of her stomach threatened to make themselves known to the shiny floor.

  Xander was uncomfortable too, shifting on his booted feet, and his wings fluttered, the iridescence catching the light in the room. He narrowed his eyes on the prince and lifted his sword again, apparently ready for anything.

  “The filthy half-human thing in your womb states otherwise.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex was floating…weeeel, if a man could do so. He couldn’t stop smiling. All he could do was nod and broaden his grin at the odd looks he was getting because of it. Aye, his mood had improved, so it was no wonder all the MacLeods were noticing.

  He hadn’t even complained to Hamish about his latest round of demanding scrolls. Alex chuckled. He’d almost suggested the steward scrape his jaw from the floor of his ledger room when presented with his time-consuming task that morning. He might’ve allowed the tease if the man wouldn’t have been offended—and likely complain to his da.

  Instead of Alex’s usual grumbling, he’d cheerfully received the duty; even thanked the old man. Hamish had looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

  “Alex?” Duncan had his head cocked to one side, his long hair dangling at the same angle, and a hand resting on one hip as he regarded him
from the entrance of his ledger room.

  He smiled for his twin and leaned back, resting the quill next to the now needed-to-be-refilled inkwell in front of him. He’d just finished his last required signature and rolled the scroll back up. He still needed to affix wax and the MacLeod seal. “Afternoon, brother.” Alex threw him a nod.

  “Uh…”

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to the usual chair Duncan occupied.

  That froze his brother about ten feet from his desk.

  “What’s go’ inta ye this time?”

  Alex just grinned.

  Duncan narrowed his eyes. “What’ve ye done wit’ my brother?”

  He chuckled and put up a beckoning hand. “Come, join me. I’ve jus’ finished here.”

  His twin made no moves. Just stared, his mouth half-agape.

  That made Alex laugh harder. “Ah, usually I’m tha more suspicionin’ of tha two a’us.”

  “Aye,” Duncan said slowly. “But I see nothin’ usual ‘bout tha way yer actin’.”

  “What? I canna be happy?”

  “My brother? Nay.” He shook his head. “Did Bán toss ye on yer arse…nay, more like yer head?”

  “Nay.”

  “‘Tis yer lass, then? Yer princess?”

  He could only beam like an idiot.

  Duncan rolled his eyes, looking very much like their younger sister.

  “Come, come, I’ve news.”

  His brother’s gaze was still much too wary as he lifted the chair and planted it alongside the desk like he always did, and the expression didn’t fade as he folded his big body to sit. He crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his broad shoulders.

  “Ye look as if yer bracin’ fer bad news.” Alex tried not to frown. He wouldn’t let his twin dim his good mood. He was to meet Alana that night, and he was going to press her about their marriage.

  Where didn’t matter, as long as it was soon.

  “Should I be?” Duncan asked, still studying him.

  The back of his mind whispered she wasn’t free from the Fae prince—an Irish bastard no less—who held her captive by a false agreement, but he tried not to focus on that. Part of Alex called himself a fool. She’d told him her plight and explained if she ran away permanently, his life—and all the lives of his clan—would be in grave danger.