by Baker, Katy
What choice do you have? a voice said in the back of her mind. I can’t tell him! She thought desperately. I just can’t.
FINN WATCHED ELEANOR. There was a crease between her eyebrows and her large, luminous eyes were full of worry. He wanted to reach out, pull her to him and kiss her until the worry evaporated from her beautiful face. But he knew he could not.
A gulf lay between them, one that neither could cross. It was a chasm made up of secrets, of half-truths and things left unsaid.
Oh, how he longed to tell her everything. How he longed to have it all laid out between them, the truth, no matter how dark and painful it might be.
But she would turn from ye if she knew the truth, a voice whispered in his head. And she would be right to do so. Why would she want aught to do with ye? Traitor and liar that ye are?
Then he heard Irene MacAskill’s voice, the words she’d spoken to him that day in the woods. There is always a way back, lad. Destiny has a way of leading us safely home if we go astray—as long as we have the courage to listen when it calls.
Courage? It seemed he was running low on that lately. Dare he take the risk of her hating him?
Aye, he thought. I’m done with secrets. She deserves the truth.
Pulling in a sharp, quick breath, he threw back the bed covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Eleanor cried in alarm. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed!”
Finn gritted his teeth and climbed to his feet, taking a few steps away from the bed. Sharp, stabbing pains ripped through his chest and back, making him grimace and grit his teeth. He breathed slowly, one, two, three breaths, and the pain slowly began to fade.
Eleanor stared at him, her mouth forming an O of surprise. “You have broken ribs! You shouldn’t even be able to stand!”
Finn crossed to the window and stood looking out through the narrow gap. In the valley beyond the manor house the camp seethed like a kicked ant’s nest as men packed up and got ready to move out. So. This was it. In two days’ time he would finally meet his brothers in battle.
Eleanor didn’t move but Finn felt her presence behind him, heard her breath as it hissed in and out of her chest. He screwed his eyes tight shut for a moment, gathering his courage, and then turned to look at her.
“By morning I will be healed, with no trace of injury.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “Nobody heals that quickly. It’s not possible.”
He drew a deep breath, forced himself to meet her eyes. “It is if ye have Fae magic running through yer veins.”
Silence descended. From outside came the shouts of men, the barking of dogs, the snorting of horses. But inside the room all was still.
Finally, she shook her head. “There’s no such thing,” she said at last, rising to her feet. Her eyes glinted with something. Anger? “You expect me to believe such crap? Why are you risking your recovery by telling yourself such nonsense? I haven’t spent hours treating your injuries only to see you keel over from internal bleeding because you wouldn’t rest!”
“Ye wanted the truth did ye not?” he snapped back, taking a step towards her. “Sometimes the truth isnae what we want to hear. Sometimes it’s ugly and twists us up inside. Ye wanted to know who I really am? Very well. I am cursed, lass. Those stories ye’ve heard about me? They are true. All of them.”
She stared at him, her nostrils flaring, her chest heaving as his words settled in.
“The Fae,” she muttered. “Magic. Curses. Irene MacAskill. Brigid’s Hollow. This is all crazy. Crazy.” She pulled in a deep breath. “And your tattoo? Why was it glowing?”
“It isnae a tattoo,” he replied. “But a brand. A mark that shows I belong to the Fae. Or in this case, to the man who bargained with them for my soul.”
Eleanor passed a shaky hand over her face and then wrapped her arms around herself as if she was suddenly cold. "Hell. Hellfire and damnation. None of this makes any sense." She lifted her chin to look at him. "You better start from the beginning."
He nodded. "Aye. I suppose I better." He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and then blew out a breath. Tell her everything? Where was he supposed to begin?
"I’ve already told ye I was bard and tracker for my eldest brother who became laird after my father. I was out on one such tracking mission several years ago when I spotted a fleet of ships crossing the Irish Sea, heading for Dun Ringill. It was a fleet of raiders, come to sack my home, burn what they couldn't carry off, and terrorize my people."
He shook his head at the memory. It had been a bright, clear day, and as he stood on a cliff top the sight of those sails in the distance had sent a chill right through to his heart.
"The MacAuley is, and has always been, a strong clan. But even we didnae have the strength to stand against such numbers. We knew that if we met them in battle, we would lose. In desperation, we turned to other means. My cousin, Eoin, was learned in the ways of the Fae and he suggested a pact with them, a bargain for the power to defeat our enemies." He clenched his fists, the muscles standing out in his arms as he remembered that meeting in his brother's solar. The meeting that changed the course of his life forever. "So my brothers and I went to the stone circle at Druach and there we met one of the Fae. He agreed to our bargain: the power to defeat our enemies in exchange for the lives of my brothers and me."
He raised his eyes to look directly at Eleanor. "It was a bargain we made gladly. What worth are three lives compared to those of our clan? The Fae kept his word. We were imbued with a power I canna explain. I willnae describe what my brothers and I did that night but when dawn rose, the Irish fleet was destroyed."
Memories assailed him. A feeling of euphoria, of invincibility. Blood and pain. Terrified screaming.
He closed his eyes, pressing his hand across them, trying to drown out the memories of that night.
"I don't understand," Eleanor said softly. "You said the Fae kept his bargain but you're here. You're alive."
"Aye," he said, turning to look at her. "Because we didnae envisage the treachery of the Fae. In payment the Fae took our lives but he didnae kill us. He cursed us. Cursed to be forever outcasts, scraping a half-life on the edges of the world. And for me? For the spoiled youngest son who valued his freedom above all else? My curse was to have that freedom taken away. To become a slave. To have my soul sold into the keeping of another."
“Stewart?” she breathed, as realization dawned. “I saw him locking away something I took to be a branding iron, the kind used on cattle. Oh god! It has the same design as your tattoo! Why the hell didn’t I realize this earlier? It wasn’t for use on cattle was it?”
“Nay, lass,” he said softly. “It is the thing that binds me to Alasdair Stewart. He holds the strings of my soul and makes me dance like a puppet whenever he chooses. That’s what ye saw in the courtyard this morning and that’s why I’ll be healed come the morrow. Stewart knew Balloch’s blows wouldnae kill me. Only the touch of iron can do that. It is anathema to the magic of the Fae.”
“So that’s why you carry a bronze knife and arrows?” she said, her eyes widening in sudden understanding. “You can’t carry iron.”
“Aye.”
He watched her closely, gauging her reaction. He’d never talked about this with anyone. Other than Alasdair Stewart, only his brothers, Logan and Camdan, knew of his curse, and even they didn’t know what form it took. It effected them all in a different way, robbing each of them of the very thing that made them who they were. Such was the cruelty of the Fae.
He couldn’t tell what Eleanor was thinking. Her face was pale, her breathing rapid as she thought through all he’d told her.
"What’s Stewart’s role in all this? You made a bargain with the Fae, not him. So how come he controls the curse? And how come he hates you so much?"
"He hates my entire family," Finn said softly. "And he has reason to.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, gathering his thoughts. "Ye have to understand, la
ss, the Highlands can be a dangerous place. We are far from the king's justice and peace is maintained through strength. Sometimes that strength can be brutal.
When I was a boy, Alasdair Stewart lived with his mother in a village on the border between my father’s lands and that of our neighbors, the Campbells. When I was around ten and Alasdair Stewart maybe double that age, his mother, a village healer and wise-woman, was accused of being a witch. I dinna know where the accusation came from but Alasdair rode to petition my father in Dun Ringill. He begged him to intervene, to save his mother. My father went with him to the village and held a trial. He listened to the village priest’s evidence against the woman, the witnesses who accused her of bewitching them. Alasdair spoke in his mother’s defense, but my father, perhaps to keep the peace, perhaps due to pressure from the Church, found in favor of the villagers. Punishment of Stewart’s mother was handed over to the priest. She was burned as a witch. Alasdair Stewart cursed my father and vowed revenge. He vowed that one day he would destroy my father’s family as my father had destroyed his."
He drew in a deep breath and looked directly at Eleanor. "After the death of his mother, he joined forces with a man called Robert MacGregor, an outlaw and people trafficker running his operations out of the mountains. In the lawless border lands they flourished and Alasdair Stewart became a rich man. He bought himself lands and a title, put on a facade of respectability. And he knew of the Fae. Maybe he got the knowledge from his mother, I dinna know, but he made a bargain with them, and in payment he was given my life, to do with as he pleased. He had his revenge on my father—at least in part. But destroying me would never be enough. Only the destruction of my clan would satisfy him. Two years ago my brother Logan broke his curse and returned to the lairdship of the MacAuley, my brother Camdan did the same a year later, and together they turned their attention to the outlaws along their borders. They routed MacGregor and his crew from their mountain lair and now their attention has turned to Alasdair Stewart. The MacAuley and MacConnell forces outnumber Stewart’s and they would have won long before now if not for the bargain Stewart made with the Fae. If not for me."
He gritted his teeth as the old, familiar shame washed through him. He forced himself to continue. "If not for my help, my knowledge of the MacAuley strategies, the make-up of their forces, the likely lines of attack and retreat, my brothers would have defeated Alasdair Stewart long ago." He met her gaze. "So ye see, lass. I am everything they say I am. I am a traitor and a liar. Ye wanted the truth? Now ye have it."
He couldn't bear to look at her. He couldn't bear to see the revulsion in her eyes. He turned away, placed his hands on the window sill and looked out, head hanging as though waiting for the executioner's axe.
FINLAY TURNED AWAY from her, rested his hands on the window sill and hung his head. His torment was evident in the hunch of his shoulders, the rigidity of the muscles in his back.
Eleanor ached to run to him, ease away that tension, tell him everything would be okay. But she couldn't tell him such a lie. Everything was most definitely not okay.
Holy crap, what was she to do with everything he'd told her? A maelstrom of thoughts and emotions churned inside her, each chasing the other, making her pulse drum in her ears.
She found her eyes drawn to his tattoo. It was quiet now, just a normal black tattoo swirling down his back in a Celtic design of whorls and loops.
It's not a tattoo though is it? she thought. It's a brand. The mark of his bargain with the Fae. Oh, Finn. What has been done to you?
She realized suddenly that she didn't doubt his story at all. She knew in her bones that everything he said was true, as crazy as it sounded. It all made sense now. The way he'd reacted when he found out she'd come via Brigid's Hollow, a place of the Fae. The way he did Alasdair Stewart's bidding, even though he clearly loathed the man. The reason he, a MacAuley, worked for the enemy against his own people.
He was as trapped as she was.
Anger began to simmer in her belly. Anger at Alasdair Stewart. Anger at the Fae who tricked him. Anger at the world in general for allowing this to be done to him.
Softly, she walked over to stand behind him. He didn't turn to face her. She raised her hand and ran it softly over the lines of his tattoo, drawn to the strange, swirling design. His skin felt warm, the muscles underneath hard with tension but it felt like a normal tattoo, not something that marked him out as cursed.
He pulled in a soft intake of breath and turned to face her. "Lass," he breathed, his voice more like a moan.
She reached a hand towards his chest but he caught her hand before she touched him.
"Nay," he breathed. "Ye shouldnae do that. Ye should stay away from me."
Stay away from him? Did he not realize that staying away from him was no longer an option for her?
She drew in a deep, steadying breath, and made a decision. He was right. The time for secrets between them was over. She brought her other hand up between them and held out her palm. In it rested her cell phone. She held down the button to turn it on and the cracked screen lit with a light brighter than the candle.
Finlay's eyes widened. "What the—?"
Eleanor flicked to the file that contained her photos. There wasn't much battery left and she had to make Finn understand before it died forever. She scrolled to photos of her home city. She held up images of cars, of landmarks, of streets busy with people.
Finn watched in silence, his expression one of wonder. Mirroring her words from earlier, he said, "Start from the beginning, lass."
"It's called a cell phone," Eleanor replied. "Where I come from virtually everyone has one. They’re electronic devices that we use to talk to each other over great distances. And they can be used for lots of other things too, such as taking photographs—captured images like a painting."
"I havenae ever seen such a thing."
"No, you won’t have. Nobody has," she replied. "Nor will they. At least not for another several hundred years."
She looked up at him, saw the puzzled expression on his face. No going back now. "Finn, I'm from the future,” she blurted. “From the twenty-first century. When I stepped through Brigid's Hollow it brought me back in time."
She held her breath, watching his reaction. For the longest moment he said nothing at all. Then he glanced to the cell phone in her hand and back to Eleanor's face.
"That isnae possible," he began. Then he barked a sudden, bitter laugh. "Isnae possible? What am I saying? I, who know all too well that aught is possible where the Fae are concerned. Ah, lass, ye should have told me sooner. Ye should have trusted me with this."
"Then you believe me?"
"How can I not? I’ve just seen the evidence in front of my very eyes."
Relief flooded through her, so strong that her legs went weak. Finn believed her! And he didn't look as though he wanted to run a mile or burn her at the stake!
"I...I wanted to tell you," she said. "I just didn’t know how. And let's face it, that kind of knowledge would hardly endear me to your people. You told me not twenty years ago a woman was burned as a witch."
He gazed down at her, the look on his face becoming intense and penetrating. "This changes naught, lass. I made a vow to get ye home and I will keep that vow. I swear on my family's honor."
She smiled. "And I vow I’ll do whatever I can to help you get free of Alasdair Stewart. I guess we're in this together then, eh?"
His fingers curled around hers, holding her hand tight. "Aye, lass. We’re in this together."
Eleanor's heart fluttered. He was looking at her like that again: that way that made it seem they were the only two people in the whole world. Silence descended, just the call of men outside and the pounding of feet somewhere else in the house. In the room, all was still.
Instinctively, Eleanor reached out and placed her hand against his chest, against the hard contours of his pecs where the bruises were already fading to yellow. She felt his heart beating beneath her palm.
S
he glanced up, found him gazing down at her. His eyes had gone dark, the candlelight playing across the angles of his face. His breathing was a soft, steady in-and- out that made his chest rise and fall under her hand.
"Eleanor," he whispered.
Her name on his lips sent a tingle all the way down her spine.
He bent his head and covered her mouth with his own. It was what she'd been waiting for ever since that first kiss in the meadow.
She leaned into him instinctively, pressing herself against his chest as his arms circled around her, his palms pressing into the small of her back. His lips moved insistently against hers and she responded. Desire flared through her body, goose bumps riding up her skin as the kiss deepened. Finlay's tongue moved between her lips, forcing them open and then ravishing her tongue with his own.
She gasped as Finn's lips moved down to her chin, then her neck, leaving a trail of fire along her skin. She threw her head back, giving him whatever access he wanted, just as long as he didn't stop touching her.
Then, with a growl, Finn grabbed her around the waist, spun her around and pinned her against the wall. Eleanor tangled her fingers in his thick, soft hair and their lips met in a passionate dance, his body felt hard and unyielding as it pressed her against the stone and she welcomed every inch of him touching her.
His breathing was becoming ragged and she could feel his desire for her in the hardness that pressed against her stomach. Lord, the feel of it nearly undid her. She wanted this man. She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything. A desperate, urgent need took her, and she ran her hands down his back, her fingers trailing across the bunched muscles beneath the skin, wanting to feel every inch of him, wanting...wanting...
Somebody banged on the door.
Finn sprang back, hand going to his belt where his dagger would be but Eleanor had removed it when he was brought in. She glanced at him, eyes wide, but he was watching the door, tense as a coiled spring.