Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  “By a band of piglets?” Marsali asked, lowering her goblet.

  Lachlan pursed his lips. “Perhaps he meant a band of women. They’re meaner than pigs.”

  “He said there was only one woman,” Owen said.

  Marsali nodded. “Aye, in spectacles.”

  “Perhaps we misunderstood,” Donovan said from the corner of the hall. “Perhaps he was attacked by a band of piglets wearing spectacles.”

  Marsali frowned. “Do pigs wear spectacles nowadays?”

  “Aye, lass, they do,” Owen said somberly. “Why, when I was in Inverness last year, I saw a dentist riding a horse that had false teeth.”

  “Incredible,” Marsali murmured, shaking her head.

  Dougal looked as though he would burst into tears. “ ’Twas a band of children, my lord! Filthy, evil wee monsters with bows and arrows aimed right at my vital organs. I had no choice but to surrender!”

  “Dear God,” Duncan said under his breath, putting his hand to the bridge of his nose. “Someone help me.”

  Marsali laid her small hand on his arm. “You have a headache, my lord?” she asked, all maidenly innocence and melting sweetness. “Shall I massage your temples? Brew some chamomile tea… sing you a lullaby?”

  Duncan lowered his own hand and gave her a look of sheer evil that made her blood run cold. “This is the prize, Sir Dougal MacDougall,” he said, gripping Marsali by the elbow and reeling her out of her chair. “Marsali Hay, daughter of the MacElgin tacksman, Andrew Hay, and descendant of King Olaf,” he announced bluntly. “Do you still want to make a suit for her or not?”

  “How can he resist when you offer me so delicately?” Marsali asked in an acidic whisper.

  Dougal waddled up for a closer look, his barrel forcing Marsali back against her chair. While Duncan studied her in brooding appraisal as if from another man’s position, he could only imagine the thoughts that must be running rampant through Dougal’s mind.

  Aye, he could see the nervous excitement on the fool’s face, the prospect of winning this fey woman making him forget the humiliation he’d endured to get this far. With a few deft touches, Edwina had transformed her into a glowing angel of temptation. Her unruly auburn hair had been plaited into a glossy coronet that emphasized her piquant features. Roses bloomed in her cheeks. The white lace dress played up her deceptive daintiness, drawing the eye to every exquisite indentation.

  “Aye,” Dougal said hoarsely, swallowing hard. “I want her. Oh, God. I do.”

  Johnnie stomped over to the table, stepping between the herring barrel and the chieftain. “As lieutenant-in-arms of Clan MacElgin, I am allowed a vote on the council, and I object to the marriage between Marsali Hay and this man, my lord.”

  Lachlan lumbered to his big feet. “Aye, that goes for me too, my lord.”

  “And me,” Marsali said heartily, rising from her chair. Duncan gritted his teeth. By ancient law his council members could challenge whatever decisions he made, but who would have dreamed the morons could quote such a law, let alone possess the wherewithal to use it against him?

  “Sit down, Marsali. Lachlan, you too. Dougal, you’re dropping your barrel.” Duncan’s face remained as unreadable as stone as he stared down the table at Johnnie. “On what grounds do you object to this betrothal?”

  Johnnie frowned. “Well, my lord, I recall your mentioning that Marsali needed a protector, and it seems to me that a man who canna defend himself against Ef—I mean, against a lone female, two pigs, and a few bairns is no goin’ to be much of a protector. If ye take my point.”

  Unfortunately, Duncan did. He could no more hand Marsali over to this bumbling barrel than to a stranger. He inclined his head in a stiff nod of reluctant assent. “See that Dougal MacDougall of Glen Beag is given a good meal and decent clothes before he leaves the castle. With an escort.”

  Amid thunderous applause, Dougal MacDougall of Glen Beag was rolled out of the hall. Duncan sank back down into his chair and sighed.

  While he was reaching for his wine goblet, Effie sneaked in from a side door and crept to the table, darting him a sheepish smile.

  Lachlan thwacked her on the back with his soggy bonnet, then winked at Marsali. “One down, lass. Only four to go.”

  Chapter

  15

  “Sir Peadair Forbes, Laird of Inverdruich!” Johnnie announced from the doorway with a fleeting grin that did not escape the chieftain’s notice.

  Duncan rose uneasily from his chair to face the bedraggled young man who was helped to the table by a grayhaired attendant in a leather tunic and tartan trews. The young man appeared unable to even stand without assistance. He was in a very bad way. Shiny green-black strands of what looked like kelp hung from his kilt like beads. Wet sand dripped from his nose. When he saw Duncan’s impressive figure before him, he whimpered fearfully and buried his face in his old attendant’s shoulder.

  “What is wrong with this man?” Duncan asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

  The attendant shook his grizzled head. “I canna say for certain, my lord. He was so eager to get here to meet his future bride that he left our ship before I did. What happened to him between the ship and yer castle is a mystery.”

  “Then your ship was wrecked?” Duncan said hopefully, relieved that at least one calamity could not be blamed on his clan. Pray God let a shipwreck be the reason the man was whimpering and had seaweed hanging from his kilt.

  The attendant shook his head again. “No-o-o. The ship wasna wrecked, my lord. We had fine sailin’ weather all the way.”

  A sense of impending doom hovered over Duncan’s relief like a cumulus cloud. “What exactly happened to him then?” he asked in a reluctant voice.

  “Weel, my lord.” The attendant carefully lowered the young man into a chair and walked around the table, motioning Duncan to incline his head. “It is a verra bizarre thing, my lord,” he whispered in the chieftain’s ear.

  “How bizarre?” Duncan said, staring directly down at Marsali with a flame of accusation igniting in his eyes.

  “I canna explain it, my lord. One moment he was a braw clever fellow eager to wed and bed this lovely wee girl, the next he was crawling about the beach swearin’ that an old man in a blue dress had changed him into a lobster.”

  Duncan straightened abruptly. “A lobster. A lobster?”

  “A lobster?” Marsali piped up in a hurt voice. “Well, damn my uncle’s old hide. If he could do that to a stranger, why didn’t he do it to the chieftain when I asked him?”

  “Does he still think he’s a lobster?” Duncan asked with a weary sigh.

  “I dinna think so, my lord,” the old man replied. “I dinna think Sir Peadair kens what he is anymore.”

  Johnnie came up to the table, his kilt swaying. “As lieutenant-in-arms of Clan MacElgin, I object to a marriage between—”

  Duncan waved his hand in Johnnie’s face to cut short the formality. “On what grounds?”

  “Why, on the grounds that this suitor believes he’s a lobster, my lord. It seems obvious enough. I dinna see the need to elaborate.”

  “He doesn’t believe he’s a lobster anymore,” Duncan said in an undertone.

  Marsali shook her head in concern. “But what if the urge to be a lobster comes upon him again, my lord?”

  “She does have a point, Duncan,” Edwina said, her face solemn beneath her wig. “Imagine the complications. As liberal-minded as I am, I do draw limits at marrying a man with claws.”

  Lachlan stood up. “I’m going to have to object too, my lord. The lass canna be married to a lobster. Where would they live?”

  “Aye, and what would they eat?”

  “What would their children look like?”

  A resounding shout of agreement went up around the table.

  And suitor number two was swiftly ousted from the hall.

  Duncan gazed steadily at the disheveled man in a torn plaid who stood trembling before him. Twigs and leaves clung to the man’s scabby elbows and knee
s. His pale frightened face sported a few fresh scratches. His head jerked at the slightest noise. His fingers twitched convulsively.

  “Was it pigs?” Duncan asked tiredly.

  The man blinked in bewilderment. “Pigs, my lord?”

  “Were you a lobster?”

  The man edged away from the table, clearly suspecting the chieftain was a lunatic who had lured him to the castle for evil purposes. “I—I d-dinna ken what ye’re talkin’ about.”

  “You were attacked, weren’t you?”

  “A-aye,” the man said cautiously, taking a nervous step back. “I didna come to pay court lookin’ like this.”

  “Who—what—attacked you?” Duncan asked, ignoring the titters of amusement that had broken out around the table.

  “ ’Twas a hawk, my lord. A big vicious creature with yellow eyes like a demon.”

  Duncan’s gaze swept the length of the table and came to rest on the smallest figure, her head bent demurely downward.

  “Don’t look at me, my lord,” she said without glancing up. “I haven’t left your sight for hours, and besides, that bird has never obeyed me in his life.”

  Johnnie stepped up to the table. “As lieutenant-in-arms—”

  Duncan dropped his head back on his chair and closed his eyes. “Get him out of here.”

  But suitor number three was already running for his life down the hall before the clansmen could rouse themselves, convinced he had escaped a fate worse than death.

  Fiona took care of suitor number four. He never even reached the hall. It was the first time she had ever made a man-thing wilt in person. She leaned up against the castle wall, shaking with victory and a heady sense of power.

  Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure whether the spell itself had worked (how did one ask for proof?) or whether the threat of it had sent the timid-faced wool merchant scurrying for his horse.

  She only wished she could figure out exactly how she’d done it. Was it the Celtic incantation? The way she had waved her wand? If she knew, then she could counteract her papa’s magic. Fiona was desperate to use her power to save her wee cousin from that black demon Duncan MacElgin’s clutches.

  Suitor number five was built like a burly old bear, muscles bulging from his muscles and shaggy brown hair covering every inch of him that wasn’t wrapped in a pungent plaid. His black lustful eyes burned like coals above a bushy red-brown beard as dense as a forest. His whole smelly being exuded primordial instincts and animal motivation. He pounded across the stone floor, his primitive jaw outthrust with purpose.

  He didn’t bother to acknowledge the chieftain. This was a man who barreled his way through life using sheer bulk alone. He courted like a caveman.

  Sweeping past the chieftain’s chair, he proceeded to the other side of the table and plucked a speechless Effie from her seat. Holding her under the armpits so her feet dangled between his huge thighs, he shouted, “So this is the wee lassie up fer the takin’? Och, she’s a scrawny bit o’ nothing, ain’t she? ’Tis a damn good thing ye’re offerin’ a big dowry wi’ the scarecrow. I’ll spend it all on fodder to fatten up the bag o’ bones.”

  Then he yanked her against his chest in a bone-crushing hug. In the silence you could hear the vertebrae of her back popping one by one, and it was such an awful sound that even Duncan, accustomed to the casualties and broken limbs of battle, winced in sympathy.

  The bear had plunked her down and was grinning broadly. Effie got a really angry look on her face and slowly pulled off her spectacles, handing them across the table to Marsali. The clansmen around her scrambled for safety, and just in time. Effie’s fist flew up like a sledgehammer and hit the grinning Highlander right in the nose.

  And knocked him out cold.

  He toppled like a lightning-blasted oak. And that, of course, was the end of suitor number five.

  Chapter

  16

  “Well, so much for your ball, Fairy Godmother,” Duncan said glumly, his voice barely carrying above the cheerful noise of celebration in the hall.

  Edwina ducked as a dart went sailing over her head and thunked into Donovan’s harp. “And so much for your matchmaking skills. Where did you find that pathetic group of men anyway, Duncan? The local gaol or lunatic asylum? It was an insult to the girl.”

  Duncan couldn’t dredge up the energy to answer, dropping his head back against his chair. He felt like a kitchen rag must feel at the end of the day. Perhaps it was the claret he had downed to counteract the sour taste of defeat in his throat. He had underestimated the devious cunning his clansmen were capable of to prove their love and loyalty for their little princess.

  Little witch, he thought, looking up from the table.

  His burning gaze followed her energetic movements around the hall. It was almost midnight, and those clansmen not playing darts were dancing a celebratory reel, flaunting their victory over the chieftain’s evil scheme. Marsali had pulled her plaits loose, and her flowing auburn hair shone like wine in the candlelight. She danced with joyful grace, the flush of victory replacing the rouge Edwina had dabbed earlier on her cheeks. Where did he go now to find a man worthy of her innocent mischief? Where in God’s name was he to find a man with the strength and courage to take on not only her but his diabolical clan? It had been hard enough to come up with five suitable suitors.

  His mind foundered for a strategy for the first time in years. He hated to admit it, but the clan’s outrageous conduct had been justified. Not one of those five men had been worthy of even kissing her dainty foot.

  He sank down lower into his chair, only to bolt upright as a teasing voice caressed his cheek. “Will you not dance with me, my lord?”

  Marsali. He stared up suspiciously into her face. Let her laugh tonight. She’d pay the piper tomorrow.

  “Are you angry with me?” she said.

  His smile was droll. “No, Marsali. I can’t imagine why you’d even ask. I enjoyed watching you make me look like a madman and mocking manhood in general.”

  “I had nothing to do with any of this,” she said earnestly. She pulled him to his feet, a sunbeam that refused to be dominated by a shadow. “You need to relax, my lord.”

  “What am I going to do with you now?” he wondered out loud.

  She smiled as if she were reassuring a child. “At least you tried, and no one can blame you because your plan didn’t work. It’s over now. That’s all that matters.”

  Effie and Lachlan danced past them, knocking into Marsali on their way. Duncan caught her before he could stop himself, desire slamming like a fist into his chest at the tempting friction of her body against his. Without thinking, he moved his hands down her back before he forced himself to set her away. Defeat had lowered his defenses. He stared down in fascination at the alluring curve of her collarbone, at the finely wrought lace that flirted with the cleft of her breasts. His mouth went dry.

  Marsali shook her head, misinterpreting the brooding darkness on his face. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “Everyone will have forgotten about this in a few days. Our lives will soon return to normal. No one will make fun of you for very long.”

  He frowned down at the fine-boned fingers curled around his massive forearm, imagining how it would feel to experience that soft touch on other parts of his traitorous male body. He set his jaw and willed the taunting image away. “Return to normal? Meaning it’s back to the ambushes and arrests?” He gave her a cynical smile. “Do you think I’ll give up this easily, lass?”

  “I think you take life far too seriously,” she said. She glanced out longingly at the dancers. “Can we not discuss this at a later time? Everyone else is having fun. It seems a shame to waste all the hard work put into the ball.”

  “Marsali.” His voice somber, he tipped her flushed face up to his with his knuckle. “I’m running out of time. I’ve less than two months left to see you happy and the clan settled.”

  “You can’t leave,” she whispered. “We need you.
”

  “Even if I didn’t covet that Border dukedom with my entire being, I would still not stay here.”

  “But the clan is growing fond of you, in its own funny way.”

  “Are you fond of me?” he asked quietly, the question an exercise in self-torture that only made the ache of desiring her all the more acute. He couldn’t live with the fact that he wanted the daughter of the man who had befriended him when he was an outcast, the man who had forgiven the darkest secrets of Duncan’s soul. But he wanted her all the same. He wanted to be the man to initiate her into the pleasures of love play, to cradle her supple body in the aftermath.

  “Of course I am,” she replied in such a straightforward way that he couldn’t help but smile. “Why the hell do you think I’ve gone along with this silly scheme to marry me off? It was only to please you, and all I can say is, thank God it ended so well.”

  “It hasn’t ended yet, you little hoyden. You need a husband.”

  She grinned, sweeping up her wine-stained lace skirts in a flirtatious circle around her legs. “I’m dying to dance. Come on, my lord.”

  An unfamiliar emotion squeezed his heart. “I’m not much of a dancer. I…”

  A sudden surge of energy resonated through the hall. The raucous din of pipes, fiddles, and harps crashed to a discordant silence. Dancers froze in midair. Conversation hushed. The moment of sweet reconciliation between Duncan and Marsali dissipated as everyone strained to trace the source of the disturbance.

  In the silence the determined tramping of at least a dozen intruders over the drawbridge vibrated in the summer night. His reaction instinctive, Duncan shoved Marsali toward the safety of the side passageway. She darted right back to his side.

  “Get out of here.” His hand was already at his sword. “Johnnie, why did the bloody watch not warn us we had visitors?”

  Johnnie pushed Suisan, Cook’s daughter, off his lap. Unoffended, she scrambled about on the floor to retrieve the broadsword and dirk he had discarded earlier. “The watch is dead drunk, my lord,” he said. “They took to celebratin’ the minute the last suitor left. Besides, the chickens didna squawk in warning.”