Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  Brought back to his present dilemma, Duncan turned his head and stared out across the castle battlements. From the start, Andrew Hay had treated him with an understanding and a respect he had never deserved. Not even now, two decades later. He swallowed dryly. He wished that he hadn’t come back here at all, that Marsali Hay did not exist as a reminder of past sins and future temptations. He didn’t need to worry about a wild little waif.

  He also wished that his fiancée, Sarah, and her brother were not due to arrive in a fortnight’s time. It would take an act of God to restore order to the clan before then, and God hadn’t bestowed any favors on the desolate castle for more years than Duncan could count. It didn’t take a crystal ball to foresee the disaster looming on the horizon.

  “There ye are, my lord.”

  Duncan glanced around at the vaguely familiar voice, recognizing the lumpy figure of Lachlan standing at the top of the stairs that led into the keep. The clansman stared down in awestruck silence at the pile of mortar at Duncan’s feet, clearly convinced the chieftain had tom the tower apart with his bare hands, perhaps even his teeth, in a fit of black temper.

  “What do you want, Lachlan?”

  “Er, never mind, my lord.” He crept back a step, a nervous grin pasted on his face. “Perhaps ’tisna a good time to disturb ye.”

  “What do you want?” Duncan repeated.

  “Well, there’s been another sighting in the guardroom. The men thought I should tell ye.”

  “A sighting?”

  “Aye, Effie—that’s the girl wi’ the piglets—was preparing a room for Marsali next to the guardroom, as ye asked, when the ghostie appeared, swearin’ her head off because Effie had moved the chamberpot.”

  “Am I imagining this conversation?”

  “I dinna know, my lord, but Effie said she heard Giorsal knock over a suit of armor and shout that ‘that damned chieftain will be the death of me yet,’ which of course wasna a reference to you, my lord, but to her already dead husband, Bhaltair, who was the chieftain two hundred years ago.”

  Duncan’s smile faded. “Then it was probably some drunk in a nightshirt looking for the privy. Don’t waste my time with such nonsense again.”

  He broke off as the crash of the drawbridge and subsequent resentful squawk of chickens in the moat heralded a late-night arrival to the castle. Duncan returned to the parapets and stared down in unwilling fascination, Lachlan completely forgotten.

  Marsali had dismounted in the outer bailey, her tiny figure drawing a crowd of clansmen and castle servants from the darkened outbuildings. Even from the distance Duncan could sense their concern for her, conspiracy humming in the air as they gathered to discuss their common enemy.

  Him.

  He straightened almost in self-defense as Marsali lifted her face in defiance to the turret, where he stood as if to assert her independence. For now she held the upper hand, but not for long. She had no idea what she was up against.

  “There will be a clan meeting the day after tomorrow in the hall,” he said curtly, moving past Lachlan to the dark hole of the stairs. “See that everyone is in attendance. And sober.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Lachlan screwed up the last of his nerve to pluck shyly at Duncan’s shirt sleeve. “And the ghosties?”

  Marsali’s soft laughter rose like a silver bell in the breeze, taunting, a challenge to the night. Duncan paused, his face caught half in darkness, half in moonlight. A chill of foreboding crept down his spine.

  “Let the ghosts alone,” he said as he turned away. “They belong here more than I ever will.”

  Chapter

  9

  He had been dreaming about Marsali when an unearthly shriek penetrated the layers of his sleep. They were lying in the sand, bodies locked together, the surf rushing toward them. He’d brought his mouth to hers, and she tasted like spun sugar; he pressed her deeper into the sand, the soft curves of her body yielded to his, and then he heard the shriek.

  The bedchamber door banged open. Cold musty air washed over him, an insult to his senses. An impatient voice called his name. From reflexes instilled in him during his soldier days, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his cavalry sword from the nightstand to face the unidentified intruder.

  Marsali stood in the dimness of the doorway, demanding he awaken. The candle she held cast undulating shadows over the room. “What is it?” he asked in alarm, throwing his bare legs over the bed. He strapped his swordbelt on over his long shirt, the only garment he hadn’t bothered to remove for sleep. He couldn’t imagine the problem. There was no cattle for a rival clan to steal. It was probably a drunken squabble in the hall.

  “Hurry up, my lord.”

  He peered under the bed for his trews. “I’m not breaking up a fight half dressed, Marsali.”

  “Well, you broke up a fight on the moor wearing a lot less today, my lord.”

  “I had little choice,” he said wryly. “Why were you shrieking to raise the dead?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was the dead. It was Giorsal chasing Bhaltair.”

  He looked up slowly as she stepped closer to the bed. She was wearing nothing more substantial than a white dimity shift that emphasized her fragile bone structure, the feminine curves and hollows. Desire stirred in his blood like a beast too long lain dormant. He lowered his sword, a sigh of weariness escaping him.

  Clansmen had begun to run up the stairs. Hope apparently still ran high that Marsali would manage to get rid of the chieftain before another day passed.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said. “I’m going back to bed.” And he did. Or at least he tried to, but how could a man sleep with that sweet face hovering over him? Not to mention the hot wax she was dripping from her candle onto his sheets.

  “Good night, Marsali.”

  She didn’t move. He closed his eyes, only to force them open as the patter of big noisy feet fell around the bedstead. “Dear God,” he said, looking around him.

  One by one his clansmen crept into the room, four of them actually brash enough to sit down beside him on his bed. Indignation rendered him speechless.

  “We heard ye shriek, my lord,” Owen said, patting Duncan’s hand. “Dinna be embarrassed. Ye must have been havin’ a nightmare.”

  Duncan pulled the sheet up to his head. “And I’m not having one now?”

  Marsali chuckled and sat down at the foot of the bed, the candlelight framing her face. “That’s a good one, my lord. Now stir yourself and make the ghosts stop fighting so we can all get some sleep.”

  He laid his head back against the damasked pillow board of the enormous Elizabethan four-poster. His body still felt uncomfortably aroused from the dream. He could see the silhouette of her breasts and softly rounded hips through her shift, and if he could see her that much, then the others could see her too. Unbelievable that only a few blissfully ignorant hours ago he had envisioned luring her to his bed. “Cover yourself,” he said in a terse voice. “Johnnie, Lachlan, one of you cover Marsali with your plaid.”

  The two men, squashed together next to Duncan’s torso, exchanged baffled looks. “Why do we need to cover her up, my lord?” Johnnie inquired after a moment.

  “Because she is not decent, damn it, that’s why. Owen, get off my feet.”

  “She looks decent enough to me,” Lachlan commented bravely.

  Marsali gave him a little smile of appreciation. “Thank you, Lachlan. It’s good to know everyone doesn’t think I’m indecent.”

  A small crowd had moved into the bedchamber, clansmen making themselves right at home with the others on the bed, maidservants vying for space between the wardrobe and windows. Donovan, the clan’s harpist, lugged in his harp. Suisan, Cook’s daughter, spread a plaid on the floor and passed out biscuits and cheese.

  “What’s the matter?” Effie asked, fishing her spectacles out of her sleeve. “What has the chieftain done now?”

  “He’s insulted Marsali,” Donovan answered. “He said she wasna a decent woman.”

&nbs
p; Duncan leaned forward, his voice like frost. “I did not. Damn it, get out of here.”

  “Yes, ye did, my lord,” Johnnie said. “I’m afraid I heard it myself.”

  Marsali nodded in agreement. “So did I, my lord.”

  “What I meant,” he said, a muscle ticking in his jaw, “was that she should not parade around the castle in her shift. It does things to a man’s imagination.”

  A short silence passed. Then Owen timidly cleared his throat.

  “It doesna do anything to my imagination,” he said. “Nor mine,” a dozen or so male voices echoed around the room.

  “What does he mean?” Lachlan dared to ask.

  Duncan set his jaw. “What I mean is that when she is dressed like that a man sees things he is not meant to see.”

  “I dinna see anything,” Johnnie said, shaking his head.

  Owen frowned. “I see her feet. Perhaps that is what the chieftain means.”

  “I see your feet too,” Lachlan whispered to Johnnie. “We’d best start wearin’ our brogues to bed if it’s going to upset the laird so.”

  “She swims naked in the loch summer evenings along wi’ the rest of us,” Effie offered as further evidence.

  “Only last week,” Marsali added in her own defense.

  “Not anymore.” Scowling, Duncan raised his long legs to dislodge his unwanted guests from the bed, irritated by the thought of her frolicking naked for the world to see. As he reached up to pull the curtains closed, he glimpsed Marsali darting across the room.

  “She swam naked,” he said, turning around to emphasize this point to Marsali, only to notice her disappearing out the doorway and back down the hall.

  He got up from the bed, everyone watching him in distrustful silence. He felt like the damned court jester. “Where do you think you’re going, Marsali?” he shouted.

  “One of us has to confront the ghosts,” she called back over her shoulder.

  He hesitated, then strode down the hallway after her. She had vanished down a narrow corridor, her candle flame flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp. From memory he delved down a secret passageway to intercept her outside the iron-hinged door of the chapel. She looked surprised when he appeared, but almost immediately she recovered her aplomb.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” she asked in a cool voice.

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I realize that, my lord, but ghosts don’t usually appear during the day.”

  He tried to soften his tone as the image of her lonely figure walking in the surf returned to him, reminding him to show her the tolerance her father had shown him. “Why did you come back to the castle, lass?”

  “Because you told me I had to,” she said in surprise.

  “And you’re going to obey me from now on?”

  She studied his face, the sharp planes and shadowed contours. “Only if it will help the clan to obey you.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “You’re a very strange girl, Marsali.”

  “Thank you.” She turned away. “And now that we’ve got that established, I’m going to find the ghosts. As usual, it’s the women in this castle who end up doing all the work.”

  He caught her arm, and she pivoted slowly to face him. He was so handsome, so masterful, his eyes moving over her with the arrogance of a man fully aware of his sexual power. She suppressed a shiver of unadulterated pleasure as his strong body brushed against hers. He smelled faintly of musk and woodruff soap. The candle shook in her hand, spilling scalding wax onto his bare foot. He swore under his breath and reached down to rub his burning instep.

  She bent, wincing in sympathy, and said, “I’m so sorry, my lord,” as a few more drops of wax plopped onto the back of his neck.

  Duncan went very still before he straightened, the movement creating a draft of air. The castle flame expired, throwing the passageway into complete darkness. Marsali caught her breath. He was an unpredictable man, a dangerous man, and she regretted that she’d had to resort to magic to make him go away. Something inside her refused to relinquish her faith in him.

  Her heart gave a disturbing flutter. It was an exciting moment, her imagination heightened all the more by her utter inability to see him. Anything could happen.

  “Are you still there, my lord?” she whispered, which was unnecessary because she could certainly sense his presence, and the silence was almost too suspenseful to bear.

  “No, Marsali, I’m in the courtyard.” With a sigh of resignation, he rescued the dripping candle from her hand and propped it in a wall niche above them. “Why are we standing in this passageway in our nightwear, Marsali?”

  “Because Giorsal is a very unhappy spirit. She throws things at her husband’s ghost—his name is Bhaltair—in her temper, and sometimes she misses and hits the men by mistake. She was looking for a chamberpot tonight. It’s her favorite missile.”

  He wanted to touch her. He ached to press her sweet little body against the wall and stop the preposterous discussion with a wild desperate kiss. The soft brush of her unbound hair teased his arm. The low melodic tones of her voice tempted him to take advantage of the darkness.

  “Ghosts don’t use chamberpots,” he said, wondering what the prime minister would think if he could hear this conversation.

  “But Giorsal does because she doesn’t want Bhaltair to go to battle. Don’t you remember the pair of them fighting in the guardroom when you lived here? They’ve been at each other’s throats every summer evening for almost two centuries.”

  Duncan considered it imprudent to tell her exactly what had occupied the summer nights he’d spend prowling these dark passageways, the young women he’d cornered, seduced, forgotten. Conflicting urges stirred in his blood, primitive and protective. He tightened his grip on her arm and, without warning, began guiding her through a corridor she hadn’t previously noticed.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in curiosity, her voice echoing against the cold stones that enclosed them.

  He didn’t answer. Cobwebs brushed her face as he pulled her through a maze of unlit passageways. They ducked into an alcove. Duncan shoved his shoulder against a wall stone until a secret door swung open and they were standing in the cavernous fireplace of the old guardroom.

  He stepped off the hearth and into the room. Marsali followed, stumbling over the hideskin shield that Duncan had dragged into the center of the floor while investigating a suspicious-looking coat of armor.

  “There are no ghosts here,” he announced with an air of authority.

  She tiptoed up behind him. “I never said there were. Giorsal was in that awful room you put me in, and she was looking under my bed. When I woke up, she started to shriek that she had lost something.”

  “Probably her mind.” Duncan strode past her to the door. “I have a feeling I’ll be making the same quest myself. Stay here until I check your room.”

  Of course there weren’t any ghosts. What did he expect? Duncan couldn’t believe she had convinced him to peer under her bed in the middle of the night. The clansmen, suspicious of Duncan’s motives, observed his every move from the doorway of Marsali’s room. They shadowed him as he sneaked back to the guardroom until he finally lost them in the confusing maze of corridors that he remembered by instinct.

  He found Marsali asleep on the floor, her face resting against the hideskin shield. With a perplexed sigh, he knelt and stared at her. The urge to touch her tangled hair stole over him, to lay beside her and listen to the rhythm of her relaxed breathing. She looked so defenseless that his own strength seemed obscene in comparison.

  In the years that had followed Duncan’s arrival at the castle, it was only Andrew Hay’s compassion for a young boy’s anguish that had made the adjustment bearable. Strangely, in Marsali’s wildness, Duncan viewed as if in a distant mirror an image of his own earlier rebellion.

  How well he knew the secret pain that motivated such behavior, the seeking to obliterate a life that had become intolerable, the burden of g
rief too heavy to bear. He had taken his quest to deaden his emotions and made it a career.

  “I have a plan for you, lass,” he said quietly.

  She stirred, giving him a drowsy grin. “I have a plan for you too, my lord.”

  Her honesty, her humor, disarmed him. He hoisted her relaxed body into his arms and stood, swallowing hard as the soft warmth of her seeped into his taut muscles.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked with a yawn.

  He looked down at her, his lids narrowed. She was as light as a sprig of heather in his arms. She tilted her head back, arching her neck, so trusting he could not stand it. He hated himself for the thoughts that crossed his mind, the urge to subdue, dominate, possess.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your cross?” he said to distract himself as he carried her down the hall.

  She put her hand to her throat. “I’m having a spell put on you,” she whispered, hiding her abashed face in the folds of his shirt. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was desperate.”

  He seemed to hesitate. His chest felt as cold and impenetrable as the castle wall against the warmth of her cheek. She resisted the urge to snuggle closer, to prove to herself that deep beneath those bands of corded muscle beat a genuine human heart and not the detached emptiness of a warlord cast in stone.

  Which she doubted only a few seconds later.

  The moment he reached her room, he carried her to the bed and spilled her from the strong haven of his arms like a sack of oats.

  “Ghost or no, you are sleeping in this room tonight,” he said and then he left, slamming the door on the lonely shadows that engulfed her. “I want a lock put on this damned door in the morning,” he shouted as an afterthought, loud enough so that not only she but the entire castle could hear him.

  Chapter

  10

  Duncan sat with his head resting against the scrolled chair, his eyes half closed in contemplation as his clansmen hied in from the great hall. Grumbling amongst themselves. Casting him resentful glances over their shoulders. If they hadn’t hated him before, they did now. Aye, they could thank their arrogant laird for the mountain of dirty chores he’d assigned each and every one.