“What will it take for you to dress as befits your station? You look like a kitchen maid or a washerwoman. The dress would fit about four of you and,” she untied the girl’s bonnet, snatching it away as Heather danced after it. “I can’t even see your eyes under this hideous thing!”
What could she say in her own defense that her mother hadn't heard a thousand times before? She glanced in the mirror, quickly, for a split second, for she couldn't bear to face her reflection longer. The image proclaimed that her mother described her all too well. What did it matter that she wore a red Granny bonnet? The thing hid her loathsome hair didn't it? Yes, her dress would fit about four women her size, but what of it? It was one of the high-necked, long sleeved, garments that she favored for comfort – and to hide her sow-like breasts. Mother was right as usual. Heather knew she resembled a drab or a scald, and an unkempt one at that.
“Sweetheart, I’ve told you so many times that while you won’t ever be a traditional beauty, you could be lovely and exotic. You need only make a little effort," Bonnie said, her eyes snapping from tenderness to anger as she continued. "I know your late grandmother convinced you that your hair is odd. The old bat, err, I mean dear," she corrected at a sharp look from Carrick, "even said that your golden eyes were produced by a curse."
Bonnie warmed to her subject, grabbing Heather and shaking her shoulders. "Wake up dear! She was stone jealous every time she said you looked like a stick trying to support a boulder. Granny's chest was as flat as her intellect." She cast a look at her husband that dared him to disagree. He didn't. "The old girl preached her favorite homilies until I grew heartily sick of them. I can still see her little beady eyes following me while her crabby voice says pretty is as pretty does. My personal favorite was her zinger -a man shallow enough to be attracted by the wrapping, will never appreciate the contents. How did she think I attracted Carrick? With my even temper?"
Heather thought longingly of her dear departed Granny, who'd taught her everything she knew of herbs and of life. Heather modeled herself after Granny's mode of dress. Miraculously, the attire Granny had worn since her days in the American colonies helped to hide the long list of physical flaws Heather hadn't realized she was afflicted with until Granny MacIver pointed them out. She bit back the vicious insult she wanted to hurl at her empty headed mother. Only her Granny had loved her enough to tell her the truth and to accept her despite her flaws. Mother just criticized and crafted impossible dreams. Why did her mother show her stars she could never reach? She tried to tune her mother out, but her voice took on that high pitched whine that made Heather long to stuff her fingers in her ears.
“Baby, don’t you want to marry? Someday you will want children. You're marvelous with the little ones. I've told you time and again that it is always the wrapping that attracts men. They're like fish—forever chasing the pretty lure.” Heather crossed her arms and looked away.
She looked back fast enough when Bonnie craftily suggested, “Why, take Laird Maclee. A man like him will never bother to check out the contents if he isn’t interested in the wrapping.”
“You’re wrong about Nial. He’s not shallow! He’s different!” Heather retorted, loudly. Anything resembling an insult to the great Maclee roused the girl as nothing else could.
By now, Bonnie shouted too. “I’m not calling him shallow. I’m just calling him male.”
In much better spirits, Carrick bounded between the two women, puffing his cheeks in and out. Then he raised both brows, lowered his head, and aimed for Bonnie, who ran around the room, laughing.
Finally, he caught her, and as he bobbed up for her earring, she squealed, “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m a fish, love, and I’m chasing the pretty lure.” His ridiculous imitation had them all laughing. For the moment, issues of wandering off at night to tend sick tenants and even Heather’s attire were forgotten. He called for wine and when it arrived, he cleared his throat and raised his glass, “The invitation Nial promised has come. We have been invited to Kilcuillin for a house party to celebrate his birthday. It will be a good time for the young ones to get to know each other. I know my lass, and the Maclee is too smart a fellow to let such a lady get by him. He shall not know what hit him. To Heather and Nial, Gle Mhath (very good)!!”
Heather grinned and raised her glass to join in the toast. She had loved Nial for years and his protective embrace at the fair only increased her devotion. She believed Nial was as beautiful inside as he was outside and cited his generosity with his clan as proof. Everyone knew that his kindness to widows was prolonged – he provided meat for their table, wood for the winter and played substitute father for the children. (Heather didn’t know that the generosity to the women yielded other benefits for Nial with widows who weren’t virgins and were available).
The family toasted and Bonnie raised her glass. “Nial couldn’t find a finer lass in all of Scotland.” She took a drink and then another, before she added, "It's unfortunate that sometimes the pretty cake isn't the best tasting. But Laird Maclee has so many dishes to choose from that I fear 'twould take an exceptional dish indeed to make him forego such a feast."
Heather considered the statement and gave a long sigh, as she glanced out the window. She knew all too well that the loveliest lasses in the land dangled after the laird. She'd seen them pawing him on the dance floor. She'd seen it so often that she'd memorized the gesture he used to swat away their hands that had even earned its own nickname - the Maclee swipe.
Bonnie put a tender hand to her daughter's cheek and tried one more time. “Heather, why don’t we delay the trip for a bit and do some shopping first. Love, your exotic looks, properly showcased, along with your passion - and I know Nial won’t miss that - might get you that prize you’ve sighed over your life long. Accept my guidance and take a chance!”
“Leave the lass, alone. She has other assets that Maclee already appreciates,” Carrick said. "Don't forget the fair, love."
“You think the man will give up his faerie fated love and tie himself to our daughter while she looks like that?” Bonnie's voice sharpened as she continued. “A wallflower will not gain the eye, much less the vow, of Nial Maclee! For goodness sakes, he's fought the schemes of beauties trying to trap him beneath the parson’s noose for years. They say he is the spitting image of Ian whose masculine glory lured a faerie.”
Carrick walked to Heather and removed the bonnet she had retrieved, ignoring her attempts to snatch it back. “Stand,” he ordered in the daddy tone she couldn’t ignore. She stood, and he reached up and removed her hairpins and unwound the tight little bun atop her head. Then he ruffled her hair until it flowed about her wildly. He glanced around the room and finally seized the fabric tying back the curtains. He looped it around his daughter's waist.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Heather snapped. Being looked at was her worst nightmare. Now her beloved father arranged her like a freak at a carnival. Yes, Da saw beauty when he looked at her but he looked through eyes that loved her. Someday, Nial would too but he'd never see her like this or he'd likely run away screaming. How dare her father do this to her?
Carrick didn’t scold her for her temper. He wanted that flash of passion in her eyes. He stepped back, “Look, Bonnie! Just take a look at our lass. There is not another lady on the Isle of Skye, nay not in all of Scotland and England combined who can compare with her. The Maclee is renowned for his appreciation of the fairer sex. He’ll not miss this.”
Carrick strode around her, pointing out her virtues. "The lass looks glorious, even in the feed sack she's wearing right now. Her hair shows that God gifted her with every shade of brown in his rainbow. All rumpled like this it looks like she's been up to things a father doesn't want to consider. Her golden eyes snap with temper but it's a hot emotion and for comparison it'll do. And her shape, well, let's just say that Maclee is bound to remember with his head what he felt with his hands at the fair."
Carrick stepped back and winked a
t Heather who tried not to cry as the reminder of the fair spurred the dratted thought she refused to entertain. Whatever Nial had seen and felt at the fair, it hadn't been enough. Would it ever be enough? Could she ever be enough? Carrick raised his glass and Bonnie echoed his motion.
“To what do we toast?” Bonnie asked lightly.
“To our Heather, the Maclee’s faerie fated forever!” Carrick roared the toast and clinked his glass with his wife’s.
As they toasted without her, Heather ran upstairs, unable to fight her tears anymore. She closed the door and frantically began to wind her hair into a tight little bun. When it was as small as she could make it, she squished it under the large bonnet she kept hidden beneath her bed in the event of an emergency like one of Mother's sneak attacks. Once, her mother burned every bonnet Heather owned. She'd had to hide in her room for a week, sewing replacements. With her disguise firmly in place, she ripped the stupid fabric from her waist and threw herself on the bed.
Her parents were idiots to believe that she could be anything but what she was - plain and more than a little strange. Her brown hair mixed tones of every hue in that color's spectrum, from nearly blonde to almost red. Odd. Her hair was odd. Her best friend, Anice MacBain, had beautiful golden yellow hair – the color of daisies bathing in sunshine. Anice’s older sister, Elspeth, had hair the color of flames in the fireplace. Heather’s hair couldn't decide what color to be and tried to be a whole bunch of them at once. And eyes? Anice’s were baby blue and Elspeth’s were emerald green. Heather? Like her hair, her eyes were odd. Her Athair, her Da, called her eyes golden. “Pure gold lassie, just like you.” But then, Athair was a bit partial. Eyes should be blue or brown or green. Gold eyes were downright strange.
The good Lord could have at least given her a pleasing shape, like her petite friends. But no, she took her height from her father and towered over every other woman at a gathering. That should have been simple enough, but like her hair, her shape just couldn’t make up its mind and be consistent. She had the hideous bags on her chest that Granny called the devil’s playthings.
Mother’s scheme would work as well as dressing up the offal from the kitchen. On the other hand, scraps in a fancy dress would look better than she did. But her looks would not matter to Nial. He was a dreamer searching for a dream that would only be found within. Dreams arise from the spirit and carve their own reality. Nial would love the woman inside her because she was the dreamer who shared his dream.
She considered him her Prince Charming even before the fair. Afterwards, she was certain he was her prince. The good Prince loved the beauty Cinderella became, but it was to the girl garbed as a scald that he gave the slipper and his heart.
Surely, her Prince Charming could do no less.
CHAPTER THREE
“Damn, damn, double damn, bloody damn, hell!” Nial tossed his nearly empty glass of whiskey in the fireplace, causing a wild flare that suited his mood. The crash was satisfying, but not enough. He wanted to break something else.
“Apparently you don’t even say hello the way the rest of us do. The drama is nice. I can see how it would draw the lasses to soothe you. Tell me, is that the secret of your success with the ladies?” Calum entered chuckling. "I knew this explosion was imminent as soon as the elders made their big announcement at dinner. So they're throwing you a surprise party that starts tomorrow and the invitations have already been sent. I bet you were surprised, all right."
“Calum, what are the odds that she won’t show up?” He asked in the tone of one who already knew the answer.
“I’d say we have better odds of the King showing up to beg you to take his throne.”
“I hoped to avoid this until I was already married.”
Calum said, “Don’t know why. You didn’t seem to mind her presence at all that day at the fair.”
“I was in rut. It had been a long time since I’d been with a woman.”
“All of about four or five hours as I recall.”
Nial poured another drink. “She stares with her heart in her eyes. The other lasses are easier to deal with, since generally, it’s not my heart they want. Damn her father and the elders! For that matter, damn you too. You caused the mess at the fair. All of you want me to vow fidelity to a lass who is as plain as an old brog. No, most of my shoes look better than that hag in a bag. I’m supposed to remain faithful to that one and resist the claws of passion my faerie fated love will inspire?” He snorted as he strode over to the window. “I’m a man, not a God.”
He gazed moodily at the preparations outside. His black hair wildly askew and his navy eyes snapping with temper, he rubbed the dimpled chin that the lasses sighed over. “I admit that my looks and the family legend have taken me a long way. Maybe I am a bit spoiled when it comes to women.”
“A bit spoiled? How about a lot spoiled, excessively spoiled, abundantly spoiled? The prettiest lasses in the land plot to bring themselves to your attention and when that fails they sneak into your bed.”
“I make my squire check out any bedroom before I enter. God forbid, my mighty Maclee lust should force me to the altar,” he sighed. “I’m thirty years old and have never once come close to falling in love. That won’t change no matter how acquainted I become with Heather. Other than the fact that she could never spur me with claws of passion, falling in love with her would be convenient. The damned faerie curse is designed to make life a hell on earth one way or another. It’s never convenient.”
“Marriage to her will give our clan her dowry, which is huge, and you know full well that we are in dire need of the filthy lucre. Over and above that, it will give us rights to most of the land on Skye. All of the smaller landholders banded together would never be a threat to us. It would take a huge force from the mainland to be a threat, and than, there’s always the faerie flag.”
At the mention, the laird unconsciously patted his brechan feiladh where the pouch containing the flag rested in a hidden pocket. “The faerie flag, what a mixed blessing that is. My great grandmother many times removed might have blessed us more if she'd just let little Ian cry for a while. All babes cry, after all. But no, she brings the cloth and swaddles him in it the one time in his little life the bairn was allowed to cry. At least the bairn had a good memory, because when he could spit out a sentence he remembered to tell his Da that the cloth was a flag that could be used three times to summon aide from the fairies. They say the lad's first word was flag. Little Ian would point at the cloth and say the word. That's likely a good thing because it would have been fodder for the ragbag otherwise. It keeps the clan safe even if its laird isn’t safe or happy.”
“The flag has only been used, what, once so two uses remain?”
Nial shook his head no. “Twice. It has been used twice. Once when Clan Donald besieged Kilcuillin. We were short-handed because most of the warriors were off aiding the MacKenzies on the mainland. The defenses were outnumbered four to one. There was no choice, it was use the flag or die. That laird waved it three times and faerie magic caused the Donald forces to see many more warriors than had been there a minute ago. They thought that we were reinforced so they retreated and quit the battle.”
“I have heard about that. What was the other time?”
“The family kept that one quiet. It was during one of the periods when marriages for love had depleted the coffers and a strange scourge started killing the cattle. Winter was coming and the clan would have starved. That chieftain waived the flag from the tallest tower of the castle. The hosts of faerie appeared and touched each dead or dying cow with their swords. Those cattle rose to form a fat and healthy herd, more than sufficient to feed everyone for the winter.” Nial said solemnly, “No one was proud of having to use the flag that time. It wasn’t something to brag about. We don’t discuss it really.”
“So you have never used it? That last use would be a daily temptation.”
“I’ve been tempted. Once or twice, a wench has come close to pulling off one of those mar
ital traps. Didn’t use it though. I don’t think that the faeries would be amused to have it used to thwart their fun. It might not even work.” Nial said, plopping himself down into his favorite chair before the fire, the one that let him stretch his feet to warm upon the hearth.
“I’ve got it!” Calum exclaimed, “You should wave it over the head of Heather the Hag. Or maybe just make her touch it so she would disappear in a puff of smoke. That’s supposed to happen, right?”
For a minute, if only in jest, Nial thought about it. But that was only because he would be willing to do just about anything to get out of the dreaded ordeal.
“You’ve got to admit, buddy. Marriage to her would solve a lot of the problems. When Carrick passes you would be laird over both clans. The MacIvers’ mineral deposits, their skilled weavers and artisans, a large herd of sheep and cattle – that would change the future of the clan forever and safeguarding the future is your first duty,” reminded Calum. "I know I'd feel that way if I were laird."
“Great green toad frogs, not you too! I bloody well know my duty. I’ve put the clan first every day of my life. But do I have to sacrifice my entire future for it? Must I volunteer to live in torment, besieged by desire for the lass that I can’t have? She's out there somewhere, the woman who will fire my passion and hold my heart.” He tightened his jaw. “The welfare of the clan is important but do I have to sacrifice my manhood for it? If so, it would be kinder for them to just chop the bloody thing off and be done with it.”
Yes, his love was out there. He didn’t know who she was, but he damned well knew who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Heather.
Calum tilted his head to the side, nodded and suggested, “Other women will be here and some of them, doubtless, will be new. Maybe you’ll meet your fate before you are forced to such an extreme sacrifice.”
At the thought, Maclee perked up visibly. It could happen. After all, she had to be somewhere. He was cheered enough to order a maid to fetch some uisge-betha. He even ordered the good stuff, the malt whiskey crafted carefully by the master brewer at Kilcuillin. The blends would do for the festival, but tonight, he needed reinforcement.
A Faerie Fated Forever Page 2