Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  “I’m going to kill her, Edwina,” he said quietly.

  “Hush,” Edwina whispered, peering around Duncan’s shoulder for a better view. “She’s doing my part now. Damn, do I really sound like that?”

  She did. Sitting on the block, hanging her head in abject shame, Marsali let a long dramatic silence ensue. “The last I heard she was pregnant.”

  “And then what happened?” Lachlan prompted, literally on the edge of the seat he had taken with the others on the stone sinkboard.

  Marsali narrowed her eyes. “Then he lost his temper, and it was so sad and frightening to see the great man brought low by the faithless Sassenach. Aye, it was the saddest and most frightening thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “How frightening was it, lass?” Cook asked bravely, her voice quivering in anticipation. “What did he say?”

  Marsali slowly rose back to her full height. She cleared her throat, closing her eyes in concentration.

  “He said… he said, ‘Those dirty God damned little—”

  The door banged against the wall with enough force to fan the flames under the chickens roasting to blackened embers on the spit. Marsali’s eyes popped open, pinned to the dark figure who thrust his way through her audience toward the chopping block. Nobody breathed a word.

  Marsali stared down at him in terrified silence.

  “That was quite a performance,” Duncan said wryly. “Your talent for mimicry is surpassed only by your total lack of indiscretion and soaring imagination.”

  Marsali swallowed, her self-confidence slipping a notch. His voice had dropped to that baritone again, portending bad things. What had she done wrong? Only spoken the truth. Not a lie had passed her lips. She’d stirred up sympathy and understanding for him, was all.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, aware of her heart hammering in triple time. “They had to know,” she said passionately. “They need you, and she obviously doesn’t.” He glanced around the smoky candlelit kitchen, at the unfriendly but familiar faces turned expectantly to his. His clan. Dear God, he had lost Sarah, and look what life had left him in return. What a joke. On him.

  “I expect supper on my table within the hour.” His lips curled as he surveyed the black smoke wafting from the ovens. “Or what can be salvaged of it.”

  Without warning, he headed straight for the chopping block to catch Marsali around the legs and sling her over his shoulders like a haunch of venison. “You’re going to regret this, lass,” he promised softly, his arms tightening around her like a vise until he heard her gasp for breath.

  “Dear God,” she grunted, pressing her palms into his shoulder blades for leverage. “Isn’t anyone going to stop him?”

  “Apparently not,” Duncan answered calmly, maneuvering his way undeterred through the shocked but unhelpful clansmen, who parted to let him pass.

  Marsali threw Cook a desperate look. “What about you, Aggie?” she wailed. “Will you let him treat me like this?”

  Cook elbowed into Duncan’s path; pressed to her stout bosom lay a long thin French rolling pin, which had whacked more than one complaining clansman over the head. Even Duncan was not wholly unaffected by the sight. He remembered quite well that same cruel weapon cracked across his kneecap years ago when he had refused to finish his soggy haggis one Hogmanay. His knee joint still ached occasionally on a cold night.

  They faced off like gladiators. Cook was herself built not unlike a Celtic warlord. A tall imposing figure with long straight steel-gray hair, she intimidated everyone who crossed her path. Her broad shoulders might have hefted a claymore in her salad days. It was the clan’s collective opinion, however, that she inflicted enough damage with an ordinary kitchen utensil.

  In his younger years Duncan had stood in stark terror of the woman. “Step out of the way, Agnes,” he said, unconsciously tightening his grip around Marsali’s wriggling rump.

  “Ye’ve no changed at all,” the woman said, her face flushed with anger. “The fancy titles, the medals, the honor—they’re naught but a disguise for the darkness within ye. You always used force to get yer way. ’Tis cruel to take yer pain out on this innocent lassie.”

  Duncan despised the emotional chink in his character that allowed her words to penetrate. “Your personal feelings do not change the fact that I am your chieftain, and it is not your place to gainsay me. Now step aside, Agnes. I refuse to argue with a servant.”

  The cold authority in his eyes gave Cook pause, forcing her to acknowledge that the wild youth had grown into a formidable man. “What are ye going to do with the girl?” she asked, her gaze flickering to Marsali, who had somehow managed to drape herself around Duncan’s neck like a fox collar come to life.

  “None of your business. The only thing that should concern you is that supper is to be on the table within the hour. I expect claret, lots of it. Donovan, you are not to play the harp drunk again tonight. We have a guest. Effie, get those damn pigs out of here or they’ll be sizzling rashers of bacon in the morning.”

  With that he hoisted Marsali higher and walked from the kitchen to the door where Edwina waited, grinning in shameless enjoyment. Duncan considered it a major triumph that he made it to the yard without Cook’s rolling pin descending on the back of his head. But it was a bitter victory.

  He swung Marsali to her feet, catching her hand when she made to bolt. “Oh no, not so fast. You embarrassed us both in there, lass. I’m not forgiving you that easily.”

  She tugged her hand free, surprise brightening her eyes. “But I only spoke the truth about what that awful woman did to you. ’Twasn’t your fault.”

  “You’ve humiliated me for the last time, Marsali Hay. That convent is sounding better by the minute.”

  “There’s no convent within a hundred miles of here,” Marsali said, unperturbed. “Now try to calm down. I’m not going to take your behavior personally.”

  He scowled. “Why not?”

  “Because I realize you’ve been hurt by what that woman did to you, and you only think you’re angry at me.”

  “I am angry at you.” His voice rose an octave as if to prove the point.

  “Calm down, Duncan,” Edwina said.

  “I have a right to be angry.” He was practically shouting now. “I am angry.”

  Marsali smiled at him in sympathy. “No, you’re not. You’re just a poor wounded beast lashing out in its pain.”

  “You have to feel sorry for him,” Edwina said.

  Duncan snorted. “All right, I’m not angry. I am a beast lashing out. But my sister, Judith, is still the mother superior of a convent school on a small island off the coast. She’s built her order on the dowries of troublesome young women just like you who were sent to her by concerned families.”

  Marsali frowned. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother. You don’t appreciate anything I do.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “You treat me like I’m a child.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Now I’m getting angry,” Marsali said. “In fact, if you’re so anxious to take care of a child, perhaps you should look for the one you left behind.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, never mind, my lord. It was just kitchen gossip. You made me lose my temper. ’Twas just something I heard when I was little. You made me angry, and I misspoke.”

  “That’s why people shouldn’t get angry, Duncan,” Edwina said.

  “Is there any truth to the gossip?” he demanded.

  “Not as far as I know,” Marsali said honestly.

  “Then do not repeat it again.”

  “Excuse me.” Edwina gave Duncan an admonishing stare. “Marsali might have embarrassed you, but her heart was in the right place.”

  “Stay out of this,” Duncan said.

  Marsali shook her head again. “Now he’s lashing out at you, Edwina.”

  The older woman sighed. “It was bound to happen.”

  Duncan resented the empathetic look the t
wo of them were exchanging. “I will not have Marsali humiliating me and risking her damned neck. I will restore order to this damned castle, and that’s the end of it.”

  “What can Duncan do to stop the problems between you, Marsali?” Edwina asked gently.

  “All I ask of him is that he stay and take care of us—”

  “She expects me to behave like some medieval chieftain who sacrifices life and limb for his moldering castle,” Duncan broke in, his patience snapping.

  Edwina frowned. “Well, traditional obligations are important, Duncan. Imagine what would happen to the world if we all just decided to abdicate our responsibilities. Surely a man with a dukedom in his future understands the weight of stewardship.”

  Marsali was really starting to like Edwina. “That’s exactly what I tried to tell him.”

  Duncan threw up his hands in defeat. “There’s no arguing with women.”

  “Control yourself,” Edwina said.

  “All right, Edwina. You think you’re so blasted clever, then you take care of her. Take care of the whole castle if you like. It’s yours. She’s yours. Have fun. I’m finished.” His face set like flint, he strode from the yard toward the keep. For a moment there was stunned silence behind him. Then he heard Edwina’s voice.

  “I’ve never seen him behave like this. It must be the shock of losing Sarah.”

  Duncan scowled, resisting the urge to turn around. Yes, it was bad enough to lose the woman you intended to marry, and thanks to that wretched girl he hadn’t even been allowed the luxury of mourning the loss in private. But what was almost as disturbing was the sneaky alliance he could sense brewing between Edwina and Marsali. As incredible as he found it, even his former fiancée’s aunt appeared to be moving to the enemy camp, and the thought unsettled him. It unsettled him almost as much as Marsali’s taunting allusion to a child he had left behind.

  Chapter

  13

  Edwina fed a few morsels of raw rabbit meat to the hawk on the driftwood perch inside the ship’s cabin. “What a nice birdie you are. Colum, I do believe Eun is coming to like me a little more every day.”

  The wizard glanced at Edwina’s warm face and robust figure in admiration. “My lady, you would charm the most wild of creatures. How could he resist?”

  Edwina tittered, lowering her eyelashes in pleasure as she turned from the hawk’s perch, her taffeta skirts rustling.

  Fiona, sitting ignored on the bunk with her face hidden behind her Book of Shadows, rolled her eyes heavenward. Sickening, that’s what it was, the way these two old people had struck up a friendship only two short weeks ago on the moor.

  Colum had been collecting elf-bolts by the cairns. Edwina had been taking her exercise. One look and they were meeting almost every day since like soul mates. A merging of the minds, her father said. Fiona couldn’t stand it.

  Colum handed Edwina a goblet of mulled wine. “Some libation for your ladyship?”

  Edwina clasped the goblet in her beringed hands. “I shouldn’t. Marsali and I are going to row out across the loch this afternoon.”

  “How goes the battle between her and the chieftain?” Colum asked casually.

  “Unchanged. Duncan is still intent on marrying her off, and she is determined he will stay.” Edwina shook her head. “I have been working on her deportment. She’s far too lovely to end her days as an outlaw.”

  Colum frowned. “The best spells take time. Perhaps when you’re finished with Marsali, you could work on my daughter.”

  He and Edwina glanced simultaneously at the petite barefoot figure pretending to be invisible on the bunk.

  “Yes,” Edwina said, sipping her wine with a pensive air. “Possibly on my next visit. In the meantime, it is all I can manage to help Cook keep peace in the castle.”

  Colum touched her forearm, smiling into her eyes. “Patience, my lady. Magic cannot be rushed.” He lowered his voice, leading her across the cabin to where Fiona could not hear. “Are we still to meet at midnight on the cliffs so I may draw down the moon in your honor?”

  Edwina sighed in anticipation. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  A month had not exactly wrought any miracles. Sometimes Duncan had nightmares of trudging back to London with his tail between his legs, admitting defeat, explaining that a handful of Highlanders had broken his spirit. He could have trained the castle chickens easier than his clan. The hope of his Border dukedom grew dimmer by the day.

  He bit back a scathing remark as he entered the great hall. A piglet barreled past him. Ailis or Alan, he still couldn’t tell the “twins” apart and was all but resigned to their presence. He stumbled over Lachlan asleep on the floor, the mug of beer on his chest rising and falling with the sonorous rhythm of his snores.

  “Lachlan.” He nudged the unconscious figure with his foot.

  “It’s time to rise, my lord?” Lachlan called up groggily.

  “Oh no, Lachlan, why do you ask? It’s just past noon. You were only to relieve the sentry on the tower four hours ago. Don’t bestir yourself. I wouldn’t want you to lose a wink of your beauty sleep.”

  Lachlan scratched his unruly eyebrows, the sarcasm lost on him as he gave his chieftain a grin and promptly fell back asleep.

  Yes indeed, what miracles a month had wrought, Duncan thought, sinking into his ceremonial chair with a ponderous sigh.

  He blamed it partially on Edwina’s influence, Edwina’s passion for playing “jokes” and having fun. Whereas Duncan’s hereditary title commanded only a modicum of grudging respect, Edwina had won the stubborn Highland hearts of everyone in the castle, from Cook to stableboy, with her flamboyant charm. Everyone avoided Duncan. Everyone sought Edwina’s opinion and colorful company. Including Marsali. Duncan had never felt more like an outcast.

  Edwina had taken the wild girl under her wing like a mother hen, promising to transform her into a prize no man could resist. At first Duncan had been amused by the project. After all, despite her uncivilized behavior, Marsali had been born and bred a lady. It wasn’t as if Edwina were re-creating the original woman. All Marsali needed were a few finishing touches here and there. A bit of polish.

  Still, it wasn’t yet July, and Edwina had already commissioned a pair of dressmakers from Inverness to costume her, a parfumier originally from Paris to create an original scent to match her character, and a cobbler to sheathe her dainty feet in dancing slippers. Duncan had been kept in the dark about the details of the transformation. He had been spending his time trying to find the girl a husband.

  He glanced up irritably as an ominous shadow fell upon the table. “Yes, Cook. What is it?”

  She hesitated, her expression stern. “Actually, my lord, I was looking for Lady Edwina. I canna find her anywhere.”

  “Perhaps I will do instead. What is it you wish to ask her?”

  “Nothing to worry yerself about, my lord,” she replied, giving him a perfunctory curtsy before turning away. “A small domestic matter, ’tis all.”

  “Perhaps I can help you,” Duncan said loudly. “After all, this is supposed to be my castle, and I am supposed to be the chieftain.”

  Cook turned stiffly, raising her eyebrows at his reaction.

  Damn Edwina anyway, Duncan thought moodily. She meant well, but she’d become a pain in the neck by playing fairy godmother to Marsali’s Cinderella. Which, Duncan reflected sourly, probably made him the equivalent of her wicked stepmother.

  “What is the problem, Cook?” he asked in an impatient voice.

  She inched toward his chair. They had come to an uneasy truce over the summer, at Edwina’s encouragement, but Cook clearly didn’t trust Duncan, and Duncan still refused to taste the first spoonful of her potage when it was served. “I dinna like to bother ye, my lord, with the little things.”

  Duncan frowned. “I am concerned with the running of the castle. If there is a problem, even a minor one, I would like to be informed. That is why I am here.”

  “Well, my lord, I canna decide
if we should serve the fish croquettes or the truffles before the ball on Friday. And I had a question about the Rhenish wine Lady Edwina ordered. Then there was the matter of the strawberry tortes, and the rosemary for the rack of lamb.”

  “Ball on Friday?” Duncan repeated, the nerve endings on his nape stirring. “Is there to be a ball on Friday?”

  “I’ll just check with Lady Edwina,” Cook said, edging away from the chair at the tension vibrating in his voice. “I’ll—”

  Duncan rose to his feet, feeling his power slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. “Where is Abercrombie?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the man in over a week.”

  “He’s hidin’ in the chapel again,” Cook said. “The children were chasing him all over the castle, and he couldna take it.”

  Duncan glanced around, distracted by the sight of Johnnie and Effie rolling a pair of empty herring barrels into the hall. Owen followed with an armload of pink satin ribbons, which he proceeded to drape over the antlers of the ancient deer mounted above the fireplace. “What the hell are those barrels for?” he demanded.

  Johnnie glanced up morosely. “They’re for the ball on Friday, what else? Lady Edwina said they’d have to do in place of urns for the potted plants. Pots of lupines and sweet peas, she wants. Don’t see what use they’ll be, though, seeing as all the damned plants in the garden are dead.”

  “Lady Edwina said that, did she?” Duncan smiled unpleasantly as he pushed his chair back from the table. “And where precisely has Lady Edwina enthroned herself this morning?”

  Effie righted the barrel she’d rolled up against the wall. “She’s in the solar with Marsali, but ye’re not allowed to interrupt them. We’ve all been banished until they’re through.”

  Duncan shoved his chair back so hard it bumped into Lachlan, who awoke with a violent start and upset his mug of beer onto the floor. “I am not allowed to interrupt them?”

  Effie blinked, moving behind Johnnie for protection. “Th-that was what Lady Edwina told us.”

  He hovered outside the solar door, a muscle twitching in his cheek. To judge by the air of secrecy that shrouded the castle, by Edwina’s excited whisperings and Marsali’s accompanying gasps of pain, Duncan might have concluded that something very peculiar was going on inside that room.