The Renegade's Heart

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by Claire Delacroix


  Isabella was as sweet as he had anticipated and more unfamiliar with this manner of caress than he had thought. She caught her breath and turned to stone at the first touch of his lips to hers. Her surprise made him want to give her pleasure as well as taking a token. It would be a fair trade, he thought.

  But when Murdoch moved his mouth against hers, persuading her to join him, her reaction made him forget such rationale. Isabella surprised him yet again. She shivered and sighed. Her eyes closed and her lips parted, as if she were unable to resist him, and her hands landed on his shoulders.

  She surrendered. With no negotiation and no price. It was a heady choice on her part, and one that made her irresistible.

  Murdoch deepened his kiss at this encouragement, savoring how she gasped. When she opened her mouth to him and tentatively kissed him back, she lit a fire within him that he feared would not be sated with a single kiss.

  Then he did not care.

  He simply wanted more of whatever Isabella chose to give.

  Murdoch bracketed her waist in his hands, then pulled her against him. His pulse thundered when she leaned closer, angling her head so that he could kiss her even more deeply.

  Isabella’s trust pierced him. Her kiss snared him, as surely as the flash of her eyes had ensured his interest. He ran his hand up her back, savoring the slender strength of her. She was mortal, and yet, she enchanted him as surely as the Elphine Queen – but with honesty, not guile. He felt invigorated as he once had been – as he had not been in so long that he scarce remembered it.

  Perhaps there was hope for him in this mortal realm. Perhaps the lady Isabella, with her curiosity and her direct speech, held the key to his future.

  Murdoch wanted very much to know.

  He might have taken more than he should have done, but Isabella suddenly planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

  “Anthony!” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. Her lips were swollen from his kiss and her cheeks flushed, her hair coming free of her braid. She looked disheveled and welcoming and for a moment, he did not care what had troubled her.

  Yet sure enough, the sound of limping footsteps carried from the stairs to the great hall. Isabella’s reaction made Murdoch fear for her welfare should their kiss be discovered. Who knew how the laird treated his sisters?

  He could not see her condemned.

  “Fear not,” he whispered, running his fingertips over her cheek. “I will not betray you, my Isabella.”

  She seemed surprised by this, but her smile was all the sweeter for its delay. Murdoch held her gaze for a potent moment, then strode silently to the door. He listened, then opened it swiftly and stepped into the hall. The castellan was yet out of sight. He winked at Isabella, who held her hands to her lips as if regretting what she had done.

  Murdoch had no regrets. He closed the door with care, striding onward as if he had just left the laird’s chamber. The castellan came into sight, then halted on the stairs in surprise, two mugs of ale in his hands.

  “It seems I am to be cast from the gates without hospitality,” Murdoch said to the older man, deliberately letting his tone turn impatient. He lifted a mug from the astonished man’s grasp, drained half of it, then returned it. “But I thank you for the thought.”

  Murdoch swept past the sputtering castellan, his thoughts spinning. His plan to remain near Kinfairlie and haunt the laird had grown far more enticing, given the splendor of Isabella’s kiss.

  * * *

  Finvarra, king of Ireland’s Daoine Sidhe, and the Elphine Queen of Scotland met every year at winter’s darkness to play chess. Originally, they had contested ownership of a verdant isle between Ireland and Scotland, and had agreed to cede the isle to whichever of them won two of three matches.

  Finvarra won the first.

  The Elphine Queen won the second.

  When Finvarra won the third match, he found himself unwilling to lose the companionship of his opponent. It was true that he had a Fae queen of his own in Una, and the most beauteous woman in any realm at that. But the Elphine Queen possessed more than mere beauty. She showed a cleverness more like his own – as well as a similar appetite for passion. While Una was possessive and desiring of his attention, the Elphine Queen liked to match wits with Finvarra. He liked her laughter, he adored the flash of her eyes, and he lusted for more.

  His suggestion that they play for best of nine was accepted with such speed that Finvarra was encouraged. He could not have been the only one thinking of alliances of a most earthy kind. He was so encouraged that he did something he never did.

  He let her win.

  It had been the Elphine Queen who had been triumphant after nine matches. She had immediately leaned across the board, displaying the majesty of her breasts to Finvarra and fluttering her dark wings as she insisted ’twas only fair that she should be as gracious in triumph as he had been.

  They played then for best of twenty-one.

  By this point, neither of them knew for certain how many times they had met or who held the upper hand. Both of them had forgotten the contested isle. There were scribes in the ranks of their households who scrupulously recorded the outcome of each match, but neither consulted the records. Finvarra was more concerned in seeing what the Elphine Queen wore each year, how she touched his hand, how she smiled at him across the board. Their annual contest had become a matter of some anticipation.

  Inevitably, they spoke of other matters, knowing that they were observed but not necessarily overheard, as their respective courts watched the game from a distance. Inevitably, their annual meeting had become a diplomatic affair between their two courts and a period for negotiation by minions of border disputes. There was merriment and music and magic, feasting and dancing, hurling and hunting.

  This time, the Elphine Queen chose Kinfairlie’s forest, a voyage of some distance for Finvarra and one that prompted his curiosity about her doings. They met at a clearing in the midst of the woods, the bare branches of the trees arching overhead like a vaulted roof. Stars glittered between the branches and the snow sparkled on the ground. The clearing was alight with small flying Fae from both courts. The moon was at first quarter, a silver wedge riding high above.

  The board itself was a piece of enchantment. Finvarra’s courtiers were charged with collecting the pieces. They snared two dozen small creatures – mice and moles, sparrows and finches, newts and toads – leaving Finvarra himself to enchant each into the piece he deemed it should be. It was not uncommon for small Fae to be pressed into service as well, particularly as queens. Finvarra could not accept an ugly queen, even upon a game board. Snared in his glamour, made to resemble the pieces they were assigned, the enchanted creatures moved upon the board as directed by the players.

  By the time the pair sat down to play, Finvarra had collected a great deal of gossip about the Elphine Queen – enough to feed his curiosity further. “Why here?” he asked as she arranged her skirts.

  The Elphine Queen smiled but did not answer him directly. “You lost one,” she said, as she touched her queen. The delicate Fae fluttered her green wings and sparkled as she moved to the more strategic position indicated. She smiled at Finvarra as she took her new pose.

  “One what?” Finvarra asked, stroking his dark beard as he considered his move. He knew precisely what the Elphine Queen meant, for she had a habit of tracking his conquests, but he would compel her to speak aloud.

  “One mortal woman.” The Elphine Queen’s dark eyes sparkled as she leaned across the board to taunt him. “That Rosamunde with the red hair. I thought you meant to snare her forever.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I did not think you liked to lose.”

  Finvarra shrugged, pretending to be less troubled by the incident than he was. It still irked him that Rosamunde’s mortal lover had bested him. It vexed him even more that Padraig had only been able to do as much because of the assistance of Finvarra’s own wife. Una’s jealousy grew tedious. Even now, he was aware of her gaze upo
n him, filled with suspicion, as well.

  “I suppose it was not meant to be,” he said mildly.

  The Elphine Queen laughed. “I suppose you did not care for her after all, then.”

  Finvarra indicated a knight on the board. The sparrow enchanted to take that form touched his thistle spurs to the frog who had become his steed. The aggressive move prompted the Elphine Queen to sit up and survey the board with glittering eyes.

  Served her right. He had a mere moment to gloat before the Elphine Queen gave him an intent glance.

  “Your Rosamunde’s family possesses this holding.”

  Finvarra glanced up, unable to fully hide his surprise.

  The Elphine Queen nodded. “Oh yes. Rosamunde Lammergeier is as beloved of the current laird of Kinfairlie and his siblings as she might have been by you.”

  Finvarra caught his breath. He had some difficulty in choosing his next move “And so you chose this site to taunt me?”

  The Elphine Queen laughed. “I chose this site to teach you.”

  Finvarra hid his annoyance with an effort. That this far younger Fae imagined she could grant him any instruction in sorcery was nonsense. He chose in that moment to ensure that whatever lesson she strove to grant to him would end in failure.

  “Indeed?” he asked mildly.

  “Indeed,” she agreed with satisfaction. “I mean to claim a mortal lover as my own, but, unlike you, I have left nothing to chance. He will be mine by the next moon.”

  Finvarra glanced up. “You cannot know that for certain.”

  “Can I not?” She leaned close to whisper. “I did not release him until he was fully marked. I had ensured his willing return.”

  Finvarra could not help but scoff at this bravado. “What of the old charm? What if he performs three selfless deeds? You will have to surrender him if he fulfills the ancient terms.”

  “He will have no chance.”

  Her conviction was ludicrous and Finvarra had no patience with it. “You should find out for certain where your mortal’s heart lies before you make such a claim.”

  The Elphine Queen laughed. “I know precisely where it is.” She reached into the glittering expanse of her embroidered skirts and set a crystal orb beside the board.

  Within it pulsed a blood red heart.

  It was not truly the man’s heart, Finvarra knew as much, for a mortal man would have died without it. It was a spell, a symbol of the magic which held this man’s heart in thrall to the Elphine Queen. His actual heart was captive, as surely as this one appeared to be.

  “I lost a mortal myself,” she hissed. “A decade ago. I resolved then that I would never lose another.” She tapped the orb with a fingertip. “So captured, the heart sickens and dies within one moon.”

  Despite himself, Finvarra was impressed by the elegance of her sorcery. Her prize was both beautiful and grotesque, the heart pulsing wetly within the orb of smooth crystal. He could see the darkness on one side of the beating organ, could fairly see the stain growing before his own eyes. He met her gaze.

  “I would make him one of us. He has the tattoos and I have his heart.” She laughed lightly. “He wished to go home again. He meant forever, but that was not my plan.”

  “You might kill him.”

  She shrugged. “Dead or Fae, he will be mine.”

  “And where is the sport in that? If your spell cannot be defeated, what is the point?” Finvarra decided that he would side with this mortal man, and that he would let the Elphine Queen win the chess game. It would lull her into complacency. “Let him choose,” he urged as he moved a piece.

  “But I must win!”

  “Mortals insist that love is measured by the return of the desired one.”

  The Elphine Queen leaned across the table. “Did you let Rosamunde leave by choice then?” She moved another piece when he winced.

  “The victory will be sweeter if he surrenders willingly to you.”

  Finvarra indicated that his castle should move, sending it along the board. “Check.”

  The Elphine Queen straightened and scanned the board, her gaze moving quickly as she sought a solution. He knew the moment she saw it. She smiled as she moved her queen. “Checkmate.”

  Finvarra ceded the defeat he had foreseen.

  For now.

  * * *

  Kinfairlie’s keep was a square tower of modest size. At its heart was the great hall, where the laird entertained his guests and his household, and all gathered in the evenings. There were two fireplaces at either side of that chamber, the better to warm the occupants. One portal led to the bailey and the gates, while the other gave access to the kitchens and pantries and storerooms.

  Stairs rose from the hall to the upper floors of the tower. There were two chambers on the second floor, the larger one shared by the remaining unwed daughters of the house. That there were three sisters now instead of five left much more room for each. More than two years had passed since Madeline and Vivienne had married, and two Yules since Alexander had wed as well. Annelise at nineteen was the oldest of the unwed sisters. Isabella was next, and Elizabeth, a mere fifteen summers of age, the youngest of the three.

  The smaller room on that second floor had once been shared by Isabella’s brothers. Since the demise of their parents, Alexander had become laird and now occupied the solar with his wife, Eleanor. Malcolm and Ross, the younger of the brothers but both older than Isabella, had left Kinfairlie after Alexander’s nuptials. Malcolm was heir to Ravensmuir, the ruined sister estate of Kinfairlie, but had surrendered the seal to Alexander and left to seek his fortune. Ross had pledged his blade to the Earl of Buchan and also departed. The room the boys had shared now stood empty and unused.

  The solar was on the third floor, along with the small chamber where Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, kept his ledgers. There was only one floor above that, filled by a single room with a sloping roof that had become the treasury when Eleanor’s inheritance had been delivered to Kinfairlie.

  After Murdoch’s departure, Isabella went to the kitchens to make her posset for Eleanor. She gave every appearance of being absorbed by her labor as she ground herbs in the pestle, but in truth, she was reliving Murdoch’s kiss.

  Still her lips burned. Still she tingled. Still her heart had not entirely slowed its pace. Indeed, she had been lost – with just a single kiss. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of a first kiss that had made it so potent. Many sensations dulled with repetition. In addition, she had been surprised by his caress, which could have heightened her reaction.

  Or was it Murdoch himself?

  There was only one way to discover the truth. The very idea of seeing Murdoch again, of kissing Murdoch again, filled Isabella with agitation of a most pleasurable kind.

  Perhaps Murdoch intrigued her because he was so different from the other men she knew. He was a knight and one with rare charisma, the combination perhaps of his vividly blue eyes, his powerful grace, his fleeting smile. He was audacious and bold, cavalier in a way that made her heart skip. That he would travel so far to ensure both justice and his brother’s welfare was the stuff of tales.

  Aye, it might be novelty that intrigued Isabella.

  She recalled the way Murdoch had blown her a kiss. He had a flair that was uncommon, that was for certain. She closed her eyes and felt his strong arms locked around her, the heat of his words against her ear. She shivered, but not out of cold.

  His family’s relic was gone and it had been the hand of the Magdalene.

  This was no small token lost. Isabella recalled how Tynan had let them look upon that very relic and touch it, but only once when they were small. The bones of the saint’s hand had been placed in a silver case shaped like a woman’s forearm, studded with jewels. It looked almost like a glove, but on the underside, there were panels of clear quartz that let one see the yellowed bones. The fingers were outspread and Tynan had said that it was laid upon the sick to heal them.

  Could it heal the sick? Isabella had always wanted
to know. She recalled asking Tynan if it were genuine and being chided by her mother for such impertinence.

  Her aunt Rosamunde had laughed.

  And Isabella could recall the shadows that had clouded Tynan’s gaze.

  This was why his family trade had troubled him so. Her honest uncle had not been able to vouch with certainty for the relics the Lammergeier had traded, bought and sold. Isabella knew that Tynan had not been able to live with the possibility that any item was less than its repute or that he could be – however unwittingly – participating in a deception.

  Which was why he had needed to be rid of the entire store of relics.

  It was the one issue over which Tynan and Rosamunde had disagreed. Indeed, the division began earlier in the family than that. Avery, Isabella’s great-grandfather, had had two sons, Merlyn and Gawain, as different in nature as night and day. Merlyn had abhorred his father’s trade and his son, Tynan, shared his view. Gawain, in contrast, had been untroubled by any question of authenticity in the relics he bought and sold, and his adopted daughter, Rosamunde, had come to share his perspective.

  Did the dispute continue? Did one of her own siblings secretly wish to continue the ancient family trade, against Tynan and Alexander’s wishes?

  Why had Tynan not simply tested the power of the relics, the way one would test the healing powers of an herb? Isabella felt a new curiosity about the relics that had once been housed at Ravensmuir, and a particular desire to see the hand of the Magdalene again.

  What did Ross know of Seton Manor and its relic? Had he truly visited there with the earl? What had he and Alexander argued about at the Yule? Ross had departed early, without saying farewell to any of them, and Alexander was displeased to even hear his younger brother’s name.

  Isabella pursed her lips and ground the herbs with care, reflecting upon the similarities between Alexander and Tynan. While Isabella did not doubt that Alexander was innocent in any theft of the relics sold at Ravensmuir, it was clear to her that he had not been surprised by the knight’s accusation.

 

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