by Diana Cosby
ALSO BY DIANA COSBY
His Captive
His Woman
His Conquest
His Destiny
His Seduction
His Enchantment
DIANA COSBY
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
ALSO BY DIANA COSBY
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to those who have served
and are serving in the armed forces.
God bless our troops and their families.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Matthew Newsome for his historical insight into medieval Scotland over the years, and the members of The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) in the Richmond, Virginia, area, who during my research for the series, graciously allowed me to attend a coronation of their king dressed in my heroine’s garb. The SCA is an amazing organization where reenactors help to keep our history alive. In addition, I am thankful for the immense support from my husband, parents, family, and friends. My deepest wish is that everyone is as blessed when pursuing their dreams.
My sincere thanks and humble gratitude to my editors, Esi Sogah and Alicia Condon, my agent, Holly Root, and my critique partners, Shirley Rogerson, Michelle Hancock, and Mary Forbes. Your hard work has helped make the magic of Griffin and Rois’s story come true. A huge thanks as well to Joe Hasson, for brainstorming His Enchantment with me and allowing the magic of this story to breathe life. A special thanks to Sulay Hernandez for believing in me from the start.
And, thanks to my mom and dad, my children Eric, Stephanie, and Chris, the Roving Lunatics (Mary Beth Shortt and Sandra Hughes), Kathy Geiger—president of my fan club, Nancy Bessler, my family and friends in Texas, and the Wild Writers for their friendship and continued amazing support!
Chapter One
Scotland, 1257
Beneath the October dawn, Princess Catarine MacLaren scoured the sheer face of the ben, then the roll of field that fell away to the magnificent loch shrouded by a thin veil of fog. “I see naught.”
“Nor I.”
Catarine glanced at Atair, her senior fey warrior, his fierce scowl framed by coal-black hair secured by a leather strip behind his head. “We saw the English knights moments ago. Their trail shouldna just disappear.”
“Indeed,” Atair replied, his deep voice rich with concern. He scanned where the remainder of the fey warriors moved through the knee-deep grass, searching for any indication of a small band of men having passed through. “The English knights are human. We trailed them with ease through the Otherworld. Yet, with each step away from the magical portal, any sign of their presence is fading.”
“Aye, something is greatly amiss.” She frowned at the ring of stones enfolded within the blanket of fog, the daunting presence of the strategic pillars majestic against the bands of dawn severing the azure sky. “How did the Englishmen know to use the stone circle to travel to the Otherworld? More troubling, how were they able to pass through? Only the fey can use it to travel to Scotland.”
Atair rubbed his brow. “I am unsure.” He glanced toward her. “Mayhap our losing track of them is for the best.”
Anger slammed her. “The best? How can you say that when the royal palace was attacked and my uncle murdered?”
His mouth tightened. “Exactly the reason your father requested that you and your sisters separate and go into hiding. Until he confirms that whoever murdered Prince Johan was indeed a threat to the entire royal family, King Leod wished nae to expose you or anyone else to danger.”
Catarine angled her jaw. “Nor would my father expect me to ignore that en route to our designated location, we caught a glimpse of the English knights fleeing the Otherworld.”
“’Twas nae King Leod’s request that his daughter endanger her life,” Atair stated, his words tight.
“Nay, the decision to follow the English knights in hopes they will lead us to whoever planned the attack was mine.” Catarine understood Atair’s frustration, but being of age and with a small contingent of the fey guard beneath her command, ’twas her choice to make.
He crossed his arms, frowned. “It does nae mean I have to like it.”
Far from intimidated by the gruffness in his voice—that of a man who was more a friend than a guard—she arched a brow. “And when was the last time I made a decision you approved of?”
Atair dropped his arms at his side. “’Tis naught to joke of. I fear for your safety.”
The last of her anger faded. “I know, but ’tis nae as if I am either naive or helpless. Once my sisters and I turned five summers, we were trained with a blade by the finest tutors.”
“Your Royal Highness—”
“Catarine,” she interrupted. “We have known each other since our youth.”
Somber eyes held hers. “And we are nay longer children.”
“That we are nae.” Exhaustion weighed on her as she noted the roll of clouds moving in. “And I worry that my father will indeed confirm that the attack was but the first toward the royal family.”
“Why do you say that?”
With a sigh, she brushed back several strands of hair from her braid, loosened from the last several hours of hard travel. “Early this morning my uncle sent runners beseeching the royal family to meet him in the royal garden posthaste. In his missive he stated the reason ’twas of the greatest urgency that concerned us all. Before I or anyone else arrived, English knights attacked, and their arrows found their mark.”
“Prince Johan’s warrior instinct saved your family.” Atair’s frown deepened to a hard edge. “Still, human arrows killing one of the fey should be impossible.”
“It should be,” Catarine agreed, “leaving one terrifying explanation—the arrows were spell-tipped.”
“’Tis the only explanation,” Atair agreed with disgust. “But who would cast a spell upon a human’s weapon to enable them to kill the fey?”
Fear rippled through her. “Someone who dared allow humans access into the Otherworld for such a nefarious deed. It could be any of the fey nobility who have challenged the royal family’s claim to the throne over the years. Or”—she mulled the terrifying possibilities—“if ’twas due to the lust for power, the traitor could be anyone. Discovering the reason is why we must trail the English knights.”
“Do you know if your father found any written notes stating Prince Johan’s concerns?” Atair asked.
The gruesome image of her uncle sprawled on the pathway in the royal garden, the stench of blood, and the arrows embedded in his chest clawed through her mind.
“Catarine?”
She swallowed hard. “When my father arrived moments after me, he searched the area, then his brother’s chamber, in hopes of finding a clue. Whatever the threat to our family, my uncle refused to share it except to our face.”
“Thank the heavens a ro
yal guard caught sight of the men as they escaped and was able to give a description.”
“Aye. I still canna believe humans were brought into the Otherworld for such evil intent.” Catarine glanced to the field where the fey warriors continued their search, then shook her head with an exasperated sigh. “There is little reason for us to continue. The trail of the English knights is lost. We must return to the stone circle and try to track them from there again. There must be some sign of their passing that we missed.”
Embraced by the mist of dawn, Atair gave a soft whistle.
The fey warriors looked over, then hurried toward them through the thin veil of fog.
Once everyone had returned, Catarine nodded to each man. “We are—”
A man’s shout echoed in the distance.
“Get down!” Atair warned.
Catarine dropped to the ground, flattened herself alongside the fey warriors. The rich scent of earth mixed with the weathered grass as a steady breeze rustled through the thick blades, shielding them from view.
“Look. Near the water’s edge,” Sionn, one of the fey warriors she’d known since her childhood, said in a low voice.
Catarine peered between the dew-laden blades of grass. In the distance, through the smear of thinning fog, she made out a fairly large group of warriors.
“I count over twenty men,” Sionn said.
“Look behind them,” Atair whispered. “Several more knights are leading two people from the water’s edge. From their garb, they are nobility.”
Nobility? Catarine frowned as she noted a man and a woman walking with the group, the luxuriousness of their garb indeed confirming Atair’s claim of their royalty.
“Halt!” Another shout, distinctly male, echoed from a distance behind them.
Stunned, Catarine met her senior fey warrior’s worried gaze. “We are caught between the two groups!”
“The tall grass and brush should keep us hidden,” Atair replied.
She prayed so.
Heavy footsteps pounded nearby.
As the men ran closer, Catarine withdrew her dagger.
“Halt in the name of King Alexander III!” a deep male voice ordered from the group closing in on the knights leading the noble couple.
Stunned, she glanced toward the knights hurrying away with the royal pair. King Alexander III—could that be Scotland’s king and his queen?
Orders rang out from the knights near the water. Several men broke from their ranks and rushed up the hill toward the attackers while the remainder hurried the couple away.
Atair glanced over. “If they come closer, we will have to fight.”
Her body taut, ready to jump to her feet, Catarine nodded.
Several feet away, blades scraped.
A cry of pain echoed.
Outlined by the fog, an armed man staggered toward them, crumpling to the earth but paces away.
“The battle ’tis nae yours, Lord Grey,” a Scot warned the towering man with rust-colored hair and a beard as he struggled to his feet. “Go back.”
“Like bloody hell,” the rust-haired man boomed. “’Tis my king you are abducting!” Arms trembling, Lord Grey raised his blade, swung.
The men clashed. Amidst the fray, grunts and curses filled the air, the slide of steel as common as the fall of men and the gasps of their last breaths.
Horrified, Catarine watched as the life-and-death battle played out before her. Without warning, an urge swept over her to jump into the fight and aid Lord Grey in protecting Scotland’s king. Dagger clenched in her fist, she started to rise.
Atair caught her wrist. “What are you doing?”
Heat warming her cheeks, she flattened herself against the ground. “I . . .” She wasna sure, which made nae a bit of sense. She was fey, nae human. Scotland’s king and his people were nae her concern. Still, the need to help the man fighting to save his king remained. Uneasy, she studied the mix of men engaged in battle, her gaze returning to one—the rust-haired Scot.
Like a defiant god, Lord Grey forged ahead, his each slash at the man before him making Catarine hold a nervous breath. Why? ’Twas nae as if she knew him. Never had she seen the man in her life.
Muscles bulged as Lord Grey lifted his blade, swung.
The Scottish knight before him screamed, then fell.
Another Scot charged the rust-haired Scot from behind.
Catarine stifled a gasp. Heart pounding, she watched as the man swung; his blade angled up, stained with a slash of red.
With a cry of pain, Lord Grey crumpled to the ground.
Nay! She must help him!
Atair’s hand on her wrist tightened. He gave a hard shake of his head.
What was she thinking? She couldna expose their presence. But for an unexplainable reason, urgency to reach Lord Grey swept over her.
Long moments passed, and Atair released his hold on her wrist.
The cacophony of blades slowed to an errant shudder.
Then silence.
Their movements weighed by fatigue, several warriors from those who’d kidnapped the king and queen backed away from the litter of bodies.
“What of the dead?” a man with a deep Scottish burr nearby asked.
“Leave them,” a gruff voice farther away ordered. “We must reach Stirling Castle.”
“And what if the king doesna comply with our lord’s request?” the Scot with the deep burr asked.
“Then he will die,” the gruff voice replied. “Let us go.” The slide of metal against leather hissed as knights shoved swords into their sheaths and started west.
Sunlight pierced the wisps of fog as Catarine watched them catch up with the distant group leading the royal couple. “King Alexander and his queen are in danger.”
Atair eyed her, perplexed. “Their fate is nae our concern. We must find the trail of the English knights who entered the Otherworld and give chase.”
So caught up was she in the battle, in her concern for Lord Grey, that for a moment she’d forgotten her purpose. Chagrined, she focused on the stone circle in the distance, then back toward the departing men.
“If the English knights we are trailing passed this way”—Sionn paused with upset—“after that battle, I fear any trace is destroyed.”
A sinking feeling in her gut, Catarine nodded. “We will soon see.” She pushed herself into a kneeling position, keeping her body below the tips of the tall grass.
“The Scots should be far enough away,” Atair said as he crouched beside her, “but I want to take nay chance of us being seen.” He faced the other fey warriors. “Go toward the stone circle, but keep low.” He started back.
Sionn moved beside Catarine. “I will keep close by.”
Tenderness touched her. Her friend worried about her. She gave him a warm smile. “I believe I am able to defend myself.”
“Aye,” Sionn replied, “but I am staying still the same.”
“Let us go then.” Catarine started through the thick, dew-laden grass.
A man’s pain-filled moan echoed from behind.
She whirled.
Between the blades of sturdy grass, shafts of fragile sunlight illuminated a lone rust-haired man staggering to his feet.
Lord Grey!
Waves of emotion swamped her, that of pain, of anger so deep ’twas as if it lived. Catarine dug her fingers deep into her palms as she fought to steady herself against the onslaught.
“What is wrong?” Sionn asked.
“I . . .” How did one explain these raw emotions? In disbelief, Catarine stared at Lord Grey, then understood. Somehow, incredibly, she was sensing what this Scot was feeling. She stepped toward him.
Sionn moved to her side. “Catarine, what are you doing?”
“I must help him.”
At her voice, the rust-haired Scot’s head snapped toward her.
The impact of his green eyes held hers, pinned her as if a sword to flesh. Sensation roared through her.
“Who are you?” Lord Grey’s
deep burr demanded.
Sword raised, Atair ran back and moved beside her as the other fey warriors formed a protective circle. “Dinna answer.”
Catarine shook her head. “He is nae a threat.”
“You know naught of him,” Sionn warned, his voice rich with suspicion.
Atair nodded to the daunting man. “Who are you?”
The Scot straightened. “Trálin MacGruder, Earl of Grey, personal guard to King Alexander,” he replied, his each breath rattling with agony. His body began to waver. “Who be—” On a muttered curse, he collapsed.
“Nay!” She broke through her guard’s protective circle and rushed toward Lord Grey.
“Catarine!” Atair called.
Panic slid through her as she faced her senior fey warrior. “I . . . I must help him.”
Atair shook his head. “We must go. Now.”
She should agree. ’Twas imperative to find where they’d lost the trail of the English knights—if it still existed. More, to remain here with a stranger, a human, went against everything she had been taught.
Aching inside, she shook her head. “I canna leave him.”
“Canna?” Atair strode to her. “What are you talking about?”
Unsure looks passed between the fey warriors.
Emotion swamped Catarine, and urged her to where Trálin MacGruder lay moaning in pain. “I canna explain more.” She ran toward the noble.
The soft thud of Atair’s steps echoed behind her. “Catarine!”
Sunlight broke through the clouds as she knelt beside the injured earl.
Atair caught her forearm, drew her to her feet. “What do you think you are doing? Do you want to get yourself killed?”
Lord Grey moaned.
Stiffening at the pain he was enduring, at his each labored breath, she shook her head. “The Scot is far from a threat.”
Atair’s gaze narrowed. “He is human.”
“I know,” she replied, her words somber. “But here”—she touched her finger against her brow—“I know I must help him.”