by Mary Morgan
~Chronicles of the Fae
Royal chambers of Prince Conn, Fae Realm
“No, no, no!” His voice shook with rage, and Conn slammed the doors to his outer garden with a crash.
“I am sorry to be the one to deliver the news, but ’tis the truth.” Ronan’s grim expression told Conn how dire the situation had become.
“How did this happen?” Conn paced the length of his library, frustrated with the news.
“We are…unsure.”
Conn’s fury rose with the warrior’s response. “Unsure? A Fenian Warrior has altered the timeline—”
“Nae. Rory has not done so,” Ronan quickly interrupted, and then added, “If it was by his hand, Rory would now be dead.”
Halting, Conn frowned in confusion. “And yet, the threads on this human have been affected?”
“Aye,” he confirmed, shifting his stance.
Unable to fathom a reason behind this unnatural occurrence, Conn resumed his pacing. “How did you come upon this news?”
“The Keeper of Knowledge sent a message to the Brotherhood.”
Conn let out a groan. “Archie McKibben.”
“Aye. He sensed the shift in wisdom and facts. Soon thereafter, he consulted his tomes, noting the date and time of the deviation.”
“Did you attempt to consult the seer?”
“She has refused to see any from the Brotherhood, including ye.”
“Interesting,” Conn muttered. “So I am now on the list of those not permitted to obtain information? Why do I sense a conspiracy against the Fenian Warriors?”
“She has also forbidden ye to speak with your mother, as well,” added Ronan.
Leaning against his desk, Conn folded his arms over his chest, trying to gleam a solution from an impending disaster. “Do you believe any in the Brotherhood countered my orders to stay away from Rory?”
Ronan placed a fist over his heart in respect. “All are loyal to ye, Prince Conn.”
Conn winced and shoved away from the desk. “Please do not call me prince.”
The warrior exhaled softly. “Ye are our prince, and as such, we are honor bound to call ye by your royal name.”
Deciding it best not to argue with his friend, Conn resumed his pacing. “Then if none are responsible, how did the timeline change?”
“I can give you nae answers. Even Archie is baffled.”
Striding toward the window overlooking his lush garden, Conn watched his wife, Ivy, stroll among the wildflowers. She was heavy with child, and his heart soared each time he cast his sight on her lovely face. His love for her grew each day. He recalled previous conversations with the seer on his own path. Even the mighty one could not see his own future with accuracy. Was there another path for Rory? One they did not predict, because they were unable to see his journey clearly? “Did the seer mention anything about Ivy?”
“Nae.”
“Then I shall consult the future seer—my wife. She understands the situation regarding Rory, but not the details.”
“Ahh…a shrewd plan.”
Conn turned from the window and smiled. “Is Archie still entrenched at Aonach Castle in Scotland?”
“Aye. Ye ken he favors the Dragon Knights there.”
“Good. Return and ask him to be on alert to any more changes within the timeline. If this is Rory and the human female’s new path, I do not want anyone interfering. And bring me any news regarding the younger Dragon Knight, Jamie.”
Ronan placed his hand over the hilt of his sword. “Who would dare meddle?”
Shrugging, Conn replied, “Any from the Fae council. They are requesting a meeting, which I keep delaying.”
“Wise, but dangerous.”
Conn arched a brow. “You forget, they now answer to their prince.”
In a flash of light, Ronan vanished. His roar of laughter lingered long after he left Conn’s chamber.
Strolling out of the room, Conn went to greet his beloved. Embracing her, he kissed her soft, warm lips. “You are a vision, mo ghrá.”
Ivy leaned her head against his chest. “A tottering, huge vision.”
Cupping her chin, he swiped his thumb over her pouting lower lip. “One who I adore and desire.”
She pushed away from him. “You are too kind.”
He reached for her hand and pulled her back to him. “Remember, I do not jest, only speak the truth.”
Shaking her head in mirth, she cupped his face. “I love you beyond words, but I can’t help having these moods.”
“What can I do?”
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she replied, “Continue to seek me out during the day. You always know what to say to make me smile.” She let out a sigh. “Even our daughter, Sorcha has gone silent.”
His smile vanished and releasing Ivy’s arms, Conn dropped to the ground and placed his ear against her womb. His daughter’s heart beat strong. She merely slept.
Ivy splayed her fingers through his hair. “Yes, I’ve spoken to the Fae midwife. She assures me the time is drawing near, since Sorcha has taken to sleeping most days.”
Relief coursed through Conn and he stood. Lifting his wife into his arms, he carried her to a bench. As he cradled his wife, he took in the lush foliage. “Are you ready?”
When Ivy remained silent, he glanced at her sharply and found her studying him. “I’m more than ready,” she reassured. “However, I sense you are the one troubled with concerns.”
His laugher was unsteady. “I never fathomed becoming a father. It…frightens and delights me. And though I have faith in our healers, I fear for the birthing.”
Ivy reached out and attempted to smooth the crease from his brow. “All will be well. In truth, you are not alone in your thinking. All expectant fathers go through these times of fear and trepidation. It does not matter if they’re human or Fae.”
“I love you, Ivy,” he whispered against her lips.
“And I you.” Leaning back, she asked, “Would you care to ask your burning question?”
“I have none. Only to seek your counsel.”
“Am I to assume you have been banished by the seer?”
Conn shrugged. “Why would I bother her when I have you?”
Ivy smacked his arm. “There are days when my head throbs trying to keep up with your wit and sarcasm.”
“Do I cause you headaches?”
“I’m teasing.” Ivy pointed to the rose bushes growing together over a trellis. “Each year the roses rebloom, correct?”
“Yes,” he answered slowly.
“Nevertheless, they don’t bloom in the same fashion. You clip a vine and it alters the path or direction of the flower.” She returned her attention back to him. “Rory has traveled back to the same time period—the rose. However, it is now growing, expanding in a different direction. The vine or thread has been woven on a new path. An introduction, no matter how small, weaved its way along the course.”
Confused, he asked, “Can you not explain in simple facts?”
Ivy straightened. “My vision was presented to me in this way. And from my deductions, someone or something introduced a variant in the timeline.”
“They tampered with his past?”
“Not exactly. They wove a new thread.”
Frustrated, Conn removed Ivy from his lap. Standing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Who?”
“Does it matter? For now, you have given him an assignment. Let the Fates guide him.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Conn's gaze traveled the length of his wife’s body. Wisdom, beauty, and motherhood radiated from her. “Enough talk about the Fenian Warrior.” Turning around, he swept her into his arms.
“Are you not returning to the Brotherhood?”
“No. I wish to spend time loving my wife.”
Her rich laughter filled him as he entered his chamber.
****
Rory perused the laird’s extensive library. Sunlight filtered inside, and he sought out the solitude. Unsure of his nex
t step, he judged it wise to stay on at Kileburn. The morning brought the knowledge of the same month and year he had traveled the first time he came to the village. However, the events appeared different and distorted. He believed it was an earlier time period.
The cook appeared agitated after his apparent lack of belief in her declaration of the date. He left without taking the meal she presented. Confusion and irritation were his constant companions, and he longed to sort out the continued fragmented images from the past.
As he traced a finger over volumes of Homer, he studied the gilded writing on the leather-bound tome. Pulling forth a book, he went to an arched window and began to read.
“Do ye enjoy the story, or are ye learning the art of war from the Trojans?”
Rory lifted his gaze to meet one filled with questions. Holding the book aloft, he replied, “The Greek language has always fascinated me. The story is adventure—epic.”
The man entered the library carrying a bottle tucked under his arm. “I am happy to ken another who shares the same interest in Homer. I am Graham MacIntyre.”
Rory inclined his head. “I thank ye for your hospitality, Laird MacIntyre.”
Graham waved his hand dismissively. “Nae, only Graham. My father preferred everyone to call him accordingly, but I have nae wish to strut about with formalities.” Walking to a cabinet, he removed two glasses and moved to a desk near Rory. “Brother Michael arrived this morning bearing gifts of whisky.” Opening the bottle, Graham poured the amber liquid into the glasses. Passing one to Rory, he then lifted his. “Sláinte mhath.”
Rory inhaled the peaty aroma, and took a sip. The fiery liquid speared throughout his body and left a sweetness lingering on his tongue. After downing the rest, he licked his lips in satisfaction. “A fine malt.”
“Aye!” Graham poured him another and walked to the chairs by the hearth. Gesturing for Rory to take a seat, he settled himself. “’Tis a remarkable batch he has made.”
“I tasted honey,” offered Rory.
Graham leaned forward. “Brother Michael is known to keep many bees. I’ve often heard him speak as though they are his good friends. God chose wisely in placing Brother Michael at the healing institution in Grafton. His medicinal learning has brought about this wondrous liquid.”
“At Brunley?”
“Then ye have heard of it?”
Rory took another sip of the whisky, recalling past visits. Those were recalled in vivid detail, yet, his time with Erina, skewed. “Often.”
Graham studied him over the rim of his glass. “Why are ye traveling alone?”
He almost burst out in laughter. The man was shrewd—filling a man with whisky and good conversation, and then aiming forth the real question. Rory expected nothing less and bided his time, realizing the MacIntyre was assessing him. His mind sought out the only fragment from the past he could easily recall. Rolling the glass between his hands, he replied, “I am traveling ahead of Laird Ewan MacGregor. I am procuring a place for him to stay near the coast.”
Graham arched a brow and leaned back in his chair. “I have heard he is looking for a husband for his daughter. He makes the journey at this time of year?”
Rory finished the whisky and set his glass on a nearby table. “I am one not to ask questions.”
“Do ye journey without a horse or supplies?”
“I have one, but apparently the animal is lost due to a misfortune with one of your men,” Rory lied, making a mental note to call forth a stray horse the moment he could steal away from the keep.
Scratching the side of his face, Graham nodded. “I did have the area searched, but my concern was for ye and seeing my sister safely back to the castle.”
“And I am in your debt,” responded Rory. “As ye can see, I am now fully healed and will take my leave.”
Erina stepped inside the room, and glared at them. “Sweet Brigid! The man has only just now recovered and ye are filling him with drink? And I have heard from Darren ye have brought my sheep into Kileburn, including the lost ones. I thank ye, but there was no need.”
Standing abruptly, Rory stared at the beauty in front of him. The light from the window shimmered off her skin, highlighting the smooth contours of her neck. His fingers ached to trace a path from her ear to the valley of her breasts. An image of Erina writhing beneath him came unbidden, along with intense pain. Rubbing a hand over his brow, he tried to ease the burning torment and shoved the fragmented memory away.
“No doubt, ye have not broken your fast, so ’tis a wonder ye can manage to stand,” she chided.
Rory clasped his hands behind him. “At the time, food was not what I desired.”
Graham remained seated. “If ye so wish, ye can fetch us some bread and cheese, Erina.”
Her fury rose, and she pointed a finger in Rory’s direction. “Obviously, the man is fit to resume his journey, which means I can now return to my cottage.”
“Not exactly,” Graham countered.
“Explain,” she gritted out, fisting her hands on her hips.
Graham tossed back the rest of his drink and stood. Clamping a hand on Rory’s shoulder, he said, “Ewan MacGregor is traveling here with his daughter, and they seek to break their journey here for a few weeks. I require your aid with his daughter.”
“Ye need to find yourself a wife,” she uttered flatly, glaring at him.
“Careful, sister, or I may find a husband for ye.”
“Here?” demanded Rory, seething at the knowledge Graham had already known about the MacGregor. However, in the distorted events of the past, Ewan never set foot inside Kileburn. Instead, his travels led him south to England.
“What? Ye did not ken?” the man asked in astonishment.
As he fought to maintain control, Rory stepped out of his grasp. “Apparently, my laird altered his plans.”
Shrugging, Graham retrieved the bottle of whiskey from the table and steadily made his way out of the library. “Break your fast, MacGregor!” he shouted from the corridor.
“I am now trapped,” uttered Erina softly. “He’ll never let me leave.”
Hesitation filled Rory. “Why do ye not wish to be here with your brother?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Is he cruel to ye?” demanded Rory and stepped near her. By the Gods, he would slay any who dared to touch her.
Laughter bubbled forth, and Erina cupped a hand over her mouth. Composing herself, she sighed. “Nae, nae…he only wants the best for me. He cannot fathom a woman living alone, especially one who is kin.”
“Ye should consider his offer.”
Arching a brow, Erina folded her arms over her luscious breasts. “And why would this concern ye?”
The reality of the situation prickled along his mind. Do not get involved with Erina MacIntyre! Taking a step back, he gave a slight bow. “My apologies.”
As Rory made to leave, Erina touched his arm. “This place holds bad memories of what the previous laird—my father did to my mother.”
Rory did the unthinkable. Taking her hand, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Ghosts pose nae threat and memories fade over time, especially if joyful ones replace the sorrow.”
Releasing her hand, he quickly departed the lovely lass who continued to weave her spell within his soul. Nevertheless, determined to rid himself of his feelings, Rory considered it best to steal himself away. His new task would be one of protector and guardian, not lover.
And with each step, he tightly wove the chains of steel and stone around his Fenian Warrior’s heart.
Chapter Eight
“Once the door of love opens for a Fae, only death can seal it shut, binding the lovers for all eternity.”
~Chronicles of the Fae
Erina twisted her hands together, furious over her brother’s declaration that she remain at Kileburn to help with his guests. He immediately put her in charge of overseeing the preparations for the laird’s daughter. A chamber had been chosen next to Erina’s, and though she t
ried to argue once again with her brother, she judged it wise to be present when the woman appeared at Kileburn and kept her tongue.
She scanned the room and believed it would suit the woman and any maid traveling with her. Word had arrived this morning from a messenger stating the MacGregor would be at Kileburn by early afternoon. After adjusting lavender, bluebells, and marigolds one more time inside the vase on the table by the window, Erina brushed her hands down her gown and left the chamber.
Making her way through the corridor, she paused. Her attention drifted toward the training field, and she spotted her brother and Rory MacGregor. Both were shouting while they attempted to do bodily harm to each other. Her brother preferred to keep his training outdoors, not like some of the English or French, who had created large rooms to foster their skill with blades. Leaning against the window arch, Erina watched the masterful way Rory deflected her brother’s blows. It was akin to watching a hawk go after its prey. Many a time she had witnessed Graham sparring in the lists. His was one of strength and speed. Whereas, Rory struck in a slow, methodical pattern with accurate precision. Her brother wiped his brow, and she noted his heavy breathing. Yet, Rory remained calm.
Her skin tingled watching the man. What was it that drew her to him like a moth to a flame? For two days, he had remained absent from the banquet hall, leaving her in a sullen mood. She did not know the man, yet, she yearned to catch a glimpse, hear his voice, or see him striding forth.
“Ye are pitiful, Erina,” she whispered. “Gawking at the man like a forlorn sheep.”
“But even sheep ken a good-looking ram when they see him saunter by,” commented Mairi as she peered over Erina’s shoulder.
Embarrassed, she composed herself and stepped away from the woman. Curious as to why she was wandering in this part of the castle, she asked, “Did ye require my assistance in the kitchens?”
Mairi’s face flushed, and she bit her nail. “Aye, but ’tis not in the kitchens.” She blew out a breath and continued, “Ye might consider my request daft and if ye do, pray forgive me.”
Erina softened her features and gestured for the woman to sit on a nearby bench. “What can I do to help ye, Mairi?”