by Baker, Katy
A strange sense of acceptance filled him. He felt as if all the events of his life had been leading to this point, a trail of crumbs stretching back all the way to the night when he'd stood by the Stones of Druach with his brothers.
“Our bargain is over,” he said to Stewart. “Ye willnae hurt Eleanor. Ye willnae hurt anyone ever again.”
Stewart’s hands twitched, his fingers clawing into fingers as though he longed to throw himself at Finn. But he didn’t move.
In that moment Finn realized Eleanor had worked something out before he had. Rules. The Fae were bound to them just as tightly as the mortals they snared. The Fae could not use any magic against Finn except what had been agreed by the terms of a bargain. Nor could he attack Finn with anything other than what he had to hand: Alasdair Stewart and the men under his command.
Finn glanced at Stewart’s guards. In an instant he took in their formation, their weaponry, their mood. In the space of a heartbeat he'd deduced that three of them were nervous, frightened by what they’d witnessed and wanting to be somewhere else, two were angry, looking for bloodshed, and one was eyeing Eleanor with the raw lust of a man given to violence against women.
"I challenge ye," he said to Stewart, or the Fae, or both. "Fight me. Just us. As it should always have been."
For a moment something like fury blazed in Stewart's eyes. The man tensed, his hand going to his sword hilt. Then he relaxed. "I dinna think so, Hound,” he said in an odd voice, a mix of his own and the Fae that possessed him. “Why would I accept such a challenge? A master would hardly lower himself to fight his own dog." He waved a hand at his men. “Kill the MacAuley.”
Stewart’s men surged forward. Finn had been waiting for this. With a strange sense of clarity he saw one man’s body tense as he prepared to move, and in that instant Finn spun, drew a dagger and threw it. It shot through the air, a flicker of copper brilliance, and buried itself in the man's eye socket. The man dropped without a sound. It was the one who'd been leering at Eleanor.
A second man moved and Finn nocked an arrow to his bow and let fly before the man had taken more than a single step. At this close range the arrow tore through the man's throat in a shower of blood. He staggered back and hit the ground with a thud.
The others stopped, wary now.
A strangled scream made him turn. One of the men had grabbed for Eleanor and now they were grappling with the velvet bag that held Finlay's brand. The man ripped it from her grip and tossed it to Stewart whose hand shot up and snatched it out of the air.
A smile spread across Stewart’s face. “Our bargain is over, is it? I think not. Not until ye are dead.”
Finlay balked. A sliver of fear worked its way down his spine. Stewart pulled the brand triumphantly from the velvet bag and held it out as if it were a weapon. The metal glinted dully in the light. Such a simple thing. A piece of copper, twisted into a swirling design. Nothing more than that. And yet, this thing had bound him as tightly as an iron chain.
Stewart grinned. "Oh, Hound. Ye belong to me. When will ye realize this?"
A wave of black hatred flared inside Finn. "Do yer worst.”
He marched towards Stewart, pulling his remaining dagger.
"Ye forget yer place, Hound!” Stewart growled. “Ye are mine to command! Have ye forgotten what I can make ye do? I will make ye kill Eleanor Stevenson!"
Stewart held the brand high and yelled some words in the language of the Fae, words Finlay knew only too well.
In response, the brand in Stewart's hand began to glow white-hot and the tattoo on Finn's back flared to life, burning with an agony that took his breath away. He gritted his teeth as pain forced him to his knees.
Nay, he thought. Please! Not again!
The pain was unbearable. For a second it robbed him of his senses, wiping away all thought but the consuming agony. He braced himself for the bite of his curse, for that sharp coldness as the will of another took hold of him. He was a fool to think he could defeat Alasdair Stewart. He was a fool to think he could escape the Fae. Any second now that terrible cold would descend on him and he would become a monster, one that would kill the woman he loved.
No! he howled inside. Please!
But the cold never came.
Instead, the pain in his back began to fade, moving from fiery agony to a dull ache. And he remained Finlay MacAuley. No compulsion seized his mind, no will overrode his.
I dinna understand. My curse...
Only death can free ye.
And then suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, Finlay understood.
He surged to his feet, gripped his dagger, and strode towards Alasdair Stewart. The man looked panicked now.
"Stop!" he shouted. "I order ye to stop!"
But the command had no effect. Not anymore. Stewart drew his sword and swung it at Finlay. He caught the blade on his hand, feeling a burning pain as the steel cut into his palm. He ignored it.
"Men!" Stewart screamed. "Kill him! Kill him!"
Stewart's remaining guards started forward but stopped as a sound suddenly tore through the air. It was the sound of horns, ringing clear and urgently in the valley below. Three short blasts, over and over, the command imperative and desperate.
"Hear that?" Finn said to Stewart. "Those are yer horns calling. And they are sounding a retreat."
Stewart paled, took another step back. "I order ye to kill him!" he shouted at his men.
But they were no longer listening. They'd turned to the west where the sound of cannon had fallen silent, the call for retreat telling them exactly what had happened on the battle field. They glanced at one another, and then looked at Finlay with blood dripping from his hand and a grim expression on his face. He could see them putting together all the strange events they’d seen today and weighing it against their loyalty to Alasdair Stewart. Then they ran. In moments they'd disappeared over the brow of the hill.
"Inspiring loyalty isnae one of yer strong points, is it, my lord?" Finn said.
Stewart drew himself up, raising his sword. "I will kill ye myself."
He lunged at Finn. The man was an expert swordsman, moving with the grace and poise of a predator. In a flash, his blade was arcing towards Finn's throat, ready to tear out his jugular.
But he missed. Stewart might be an expert swordsman but Finn was better. Years spent as a tracker had honed his instincts to a fine point. So he pivoted away, as light on his feet as a dancer, and hammered his fist into the back of Stewart's head. The man staggered, and his blade tip touched the ground.
“I will kill ye,” Stewart growled in a voice not his own. His face flickered and once more Finn saw the wizened features of the Fae glaring at him. “I will kill ye and leave yer body for the crows to fight over! Nobody escapes my bargains!”
He grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into Finn's face. Finn staggered, rubbing his eyes and Stewart surged up, aiming a thrust at Finn's midriff.
“Watch out!” Eleanor cried.
Finn stepped to the side, allowed Stewart's momentum to carry him past and turned, shaking his head to clear the last of the dirt from his eyes.
“Give it up,” Finn said. “Canna ye not hear the horns? Yer army is defeated, yer plan in ruins. Surrender and my brother might show ye leniency.”
Stewart gave a high, shrill laugh with more than a little madness in it. “Surrender?” he asked, and this time the voice was his own. “Ye think my bargain will allow me to surrender? The terms were clear. I would destroy the strength of the Highland clans and receive the life of the youngest MacAuley in payment—vengeance for what yer family did to me. When I won the battle my reward would be greater still: the power of time. But if I failed? Oh, if I failed! What do ye think I would be required to give?”
“What a bargain with the Fae always requires,” Finn replied. “Yer life.”
Stewart nodded. “And my soul. So ye see, Hound. I will never surrender.”
For a moment Finn felt a flicker of understanding for
this man. Perhaps they weren’t so very different after all. Both had sold themselves to the Fae, both had been trapped by the bargains they’d made. But there the similarities ended. Finn had made his bargain in order to save his clan, Alasdair Stewart had made his from a thirst for power and revenge. He and the Fae were welcome to each other.
Finn looked at the man. His image flickered, the eyes alight with a terrible light, his lips pulled back in a chilling smile. Finn could no longer tell where Stewart ended and the Fae began. He raised his dagger.
“Let us end this then.”
Stewart’s maniacal grin grew wider. “Aye. Let’s do that.”
He charged suddenly—but not at Finn.
Instead he sprinted towards Eleanor.
A jolt of terror punched Finn in the stomach. He saw Eleanor’s eyes widen, saw her rooted to the spot. He saw Alasdair Stewart closing the distance, saw the blade flashing in the sunlight. And he saw one chance. He grabbed the brand from where it lay in the grass and tossed it at Eleanor.
With a strangled cry she caught the brand and swung it, knocking aside Stewart’s sword and sending the heavy metal crashing into the man’s temple. He staggered back, sword-tip drooping, and in that space of time, Finn threw himself at Stewart, grabbed the man’s sword-arm, yanked him close, then punched his dagger hilt-deep into Stewart’s heart.
Stewart’s knees buckled and he clung to Finn, a red stain spreading across his expensive shirt. His fingers plucked at Finn’s arms but there was no strength left in the grip.
"Nay," he whispered. "This isnae the way it’s supposed to be. This isnae what we agreed. Curse ye! Curse the MacAuleys and the Fae both!”
His strength gave out and Finn allowed him to slump to the floor where he lay still, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. A sudden howl of rage rose all around Brigid’s Hollow. It filled the air and Finn sensed malevolent black eyes glaring at him before the wind tore the scream to shreds and carried it away.
Silence fell. It was over. It was finally over. Exhaustion washed over Finn and he collapsed to his knees beside the man who'd been his tormentor.
Eleanor gave out a strangled sob and suddenly skidded to her knees in front of him. She threw her arms around him and pulled him close, burying her head in his shoulder. She was weeping. Finn hugged her close, gently stroking her hair. He could feel her heart beating next to his, could smell the scent of her hair, hear the in-out of her breathing. She was alive. They were both alive. And free.
“It’s done,” he breathed. “It’s over, love. Ye are safe now.”
She lifted her head and nodded. Her cheeks were tear-stained, her eyes red-rimmed, yet in that moment Finn knew he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers.
“How did you do it?” she asked.
Finn looked down at her. “Do it? Do what?”
“When Stewart grabbed the brand and ordered you to kill me. How come the curse didn’t work anymore?”
“Because of ye, love,” he replied softly. “Only death could break my curse, remember? And I died in that clearing when Logan’s blade pierced me. Ye brought me back. Ye wouldnae give up on me. Ye started my heart with that twenty-first century knowledge of yers and then healed me with the Fae magic in my brand.” He looked deep into her eyes and held her gaze. “When ye did that the power of the brand passed to ye. I belonged to Stewart no more. I belonged to ye instead.”
Eleanor gasped. “You mean...”
“Aye, lass,” he replied with a smile. “Although ye dinna need any Fae magic to hold power over me. I’ve belonged to ye since the first time I saw ye. Dinna ye understand that yet?”
She reached up and slowly traced the line of his jaw with her fingers. “Maybe I do. Just as I’ve belonged to you from that moment when I first saw you in the woods. Don’t you understand that by now, Finlay MacAuley? You’re a slave to nobody any more, you hear? And that damned brand will be melted down and destroyed.”
He cocked his head to look at her. “Did ye mean what ye said to Stewart? About not caring if you walked through the arch? About already being home?”
“Of course I did. It took me a while to realize it but I don’t think I could have walked through that arch, even if Stewart hadn’t been here waiting for us. I couldn’t go anywhere where you aren’t. I’m home, Finn, because you’re here.” Her gaze locked with his. “Because I love you.”
Something exploded inside him. Something he’d kept buried deep, never thinking it would be his. Joy. He suddenly felt as light as a feather, as strong and invincible as a mountain. An idiotic grin spread across his face.
“Then stay,” he said breathlessly. “Marry me. Let me spend the rest of our lives showing ye how much I love ye. Eleanor Stevenson, will ye be my wife?”
She grinned in response, her eyes sparkling. “Jeez, I thought you were never going to ask! Of course I will!”
A shiver of pure elation went through Finn. He bent his head, pressed his lips against those of the woman he loved, the woman who would be his wife, and forgot the world for a while.
Chapter 19
"You're being very brave," Eleanor said to the boy seated on the bench in front of her.
Archie, the eight-year-old son of Dun Ringill's cook, nodded.
Eleanor carefully finished sawing through the plaster cast on the boy's arm and gently levered it off. The cast had worked surprisingly well. Nobody in Dun Ringill had ever heard of this technique for treating broken bones and they were generally treated by splinting and strapping—a wholly unsatisfactory treatment in Eleanor’s view. Determined to find something better, she’d experimented with draping the bandages in the same wet plaster the workmen used on the interior of the castle's walls. Much to her delight, it set just like plaster of Paris. She was well pleased with the result.
With gentle fingers Eleanor probed Archie's arm then instructed him to open and close his fingers a few times. "Does that hurt?"
Archie's mother looked on anxiously. They were seated by the fire in the kitchen, Archie's legs dangling from the bench, whilst the rest of Dun Ringill's army of cooks bustled about the kitchen, busy with preparations for today’s feast.
Eleanor ignored them and concentrated on her patient. Archie shook his head.
The lad had broken his arm when he'd fallen from the curtain wall after climbing it as a dare. Eleanor was sure the tongue-lashing from his mother had hurt more than the injury and she doubted he'd be doing it again in a hurry.
Eleanor ruffled his hair and smiled. "Good. It's all better now. You don't need your cast on anymore."
Archie broke into a beaming smile. "I dinna?"
"No, but don't go climbing again and be careful not to bash your arm. If it starts hurting you're to come straight to me, right?"
"Aye. Thank ye, mistress." Archie hopped off the bench and threw his arms around Eleanor's waist.
She laughed and returned the little boy's hug before he raced over to his mother, brandishing his arm as though it was a trophy.
Cook Alice gave him a big kiss then looked up at Eleanor. "My thanks, my lady. He had me right worried for a while there."
"Boys will be boys. As long as he's careful it should be fine."
"Well, I'm grateful for ye taking a look at him, today of all days especially."
"Today? Why, is something special happening?" She couldn't help grinning.
"Oh, get away with ye!" Alice said. "Now, ye best be on yer way. If ye are late, I reckon Lord Finlay would have my head!"
Eleanor laughed, gave Alice a kiss on the cheek, ruffled Archie's hair one last time, then walked out of the kitchen and made her way outside. It was a warm early summer morning and Dun Ringill was alive with activity. As Eleanor crossed the courtyard, her medical bag slung over one shoulder, she looked around her new home. She and Finlay had been here for several weeks now and she could still hardly believe that she was living in a castle. Dun Ringill was a striking place. Perched on a rocky coastl
ine, it had the crashing waves of the sea on one side, the rolling uplands of the Highlands on the other. A large village spilled out around the castle, home to Laird MacAuley's people.
My people, she thought. Or at least they will be, after today.
"There you are!" said a voice. "Jeez, I've traipsed round half the castle looking for you!"
A woman of around Eleanor’s own age was walking towards her. Eleanor stopped and waited for her to approach.
Bethany MacAuley, wife to Camdan and legal advisor to Laird Logan, marched up to Eleanor and put her hands on her hips. "Where've you been? I thought I might have to send the guard out looking for you!"
"I was doing my rounds," Eleanor said. "Old Marjorie's bunions needed seeing to and Archie's cast had to come off."
"Doing your rounds?" Beth said incredulously. "Elle, you do realize today is your wedding day?"
Eleanor pursed her lips and frowned, scratching her chin. "It is? I'd completely forgotten."
Beth burst out laughing. "Oh, come on. Thea's just about ready to pull her hair out. We've only got an hour before the ceremony starts."
"An hour? Oh dear. It will probably take that long to get me into the dress."
Beth took her arm and the two women crossed the courtyard and entered the castle, moving through corridors and rooms festooned with garlands and flowers ready for today's events, and made their way up a spiraling staircase to the set of chambers Eleanor shared with Finlay.
They found a dark-haired woman pacing around inside. She spun as the door opened.
"You found her!" Thea MacAuley cried. Then she winced, glancing at the crib where her infant sons were sleeping. "Oops. Shouldn't shout like that. I've only just got the little beasts off." She folded Eleanor into a tight hug then pushed her to arm's length and looked her over. "You ready for this?"
Thea was Logan's wife and, like Bethany, had been brought to this time by Irene MacAskill to help Logan and Camdan break their curses. Both had chosen to stay. Eleanor couldn’t believe her luck in finding two friends from her own time. It had helped her to settle in, to find her place in this new world, and she was immensely grateful to them both.