Fairy Tale

by Jillian Hunter

  His breathing quickened. Her response was driving him wild. He raised her bottom in his large hands, kissing her and murmuring soft words of reassurance against her mouth. He nudged her thighs apart, positioning himself above her.

  “There,” he whispered, passion roughing his voice. And slowly he penetrated her, filled her, stretched the delicate tissue until she tensed, then relaxed, until he began to move and her body pulsed, absorbing his size and power, and he possessed her.

  The pressure, the pleasure, built and built. She clutched his arms, straining into him, soft cries breaking in her throat. “I love you,” she whispered, her heart soaring. “I’ve loved you forever.”

  Their bodies melded in a wild joyous mating. The perfume of smoke, beeswax, and sea mist mingled with the musk of their lovemaking. Magic embraced them. Their souls touched, soaring to the stars.

  From the deep within the castle rose the sounds of celebration. The wailing of bagpipes wafted into the darkened chambers from the great hall. A lament of losses suffered, a plea for hopes renewed. Grief and love, pain and triumph. The poignant refrain of the human heart echoing out over eternity. Ghosts of the past, dreams of the future.

  In his young wife’s arms, the chieftain was home. In her body, his restless yearning found a respite and renewal.

  Duncan led the small procession on horseback to the forgotten house at the edge of the woods. It was the house where Duncan and Cecelia had made adulterous love so many years ago, where Cecelia and her doctor-husband had lived until the day of Hannah’s birth. It was the last place in the world Duncan had planned to visit. He wished he’d brought Marsali along to counteract his grim mood.

  “I don’t see the point in this, Hannah,” he said. “It’s better to put the past behind us.”

  Hannah slid to the ground from her horse. “I just want to see where I was born. I want to know where my mother lived. Will you come inside with me, Papa?”

  “No.” Duncan’s face was resolute. “I will not.”

  Johnnie dismounted beside her, his voice gentle. “Your papa has more of a stomach for bloodshed than for shame, lass. I’ll go with ye.”

  Hannah looked up appealingly at her father, but he pretended to stare into the woods until she turned away. His heart felt heavy as she disappeared with Johnnie into the house. The reminder of his adolescent wildness embarrassed him. Still, out of it had come this beautiful girl, and he was astonished at the capacity of his love for her.

  Still, love brought a fresh crop of concerns with it. Hannah was sweet, headstrong, and naive. She didn’t see life with the cynical vision of experience. Somehow she had grown up untainted by her sad beginnings and abandonment. Duncan could only pray that one day she would find a strong man to protect her. She had been sheltered all her life in that convent, and her innocence made her vulnerable. She was also a little wild, as he had been. That worried him.

  He drew a breath of relief as she emerged from the house, her angular face so fragile and yet like his. “Are you all right?” he said roughly.

  “Yes, Papa.” She remounted her horse. Her voice was wistful. “I wish I had known my mother. I wonder if she ever regretted giving me away.”

  Duncan didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known Hannah’s mother well. Hell, he’d only been seventeen at the time. He spurred his horse down the hill. He listened absently to Hannah and Johnnie talking quietly as they followed. Then when they reached the graveyard, he realized that he could no longer hear them.

  “What are you doing?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I just want to see my grave, Papa,” she called back.

  He wheeled his horse around. “Dear God, Hannah. Not the grave.”

  But Hannah was already running over the hill to the tiny stone cross that Johnnie had pointed out. Duncan dismounted and started after her, swearing under his breath. The girl had his stubborn ways, God help her.

  “I reckon a body has a right to see his own resting place, my lord,” Johnnie said behind him.

  Duncan stiffened, not taking another step. He could see Hannah on her knees, studying the unmarked grave for a sign that she had meant something more to her mother than this crude anonymous memorial. The sight broke his heart. Had she meant anything to Cecelia?

  “Her husband probably made her pretend you had died to preserve his pride,” Duncan said reluctantly, aching to ease her hurt.

  “Look, Papa,” Hannah murmured, not hearing him. “Someone has put some heather on the grave. Dried heather.”

  Duncan stared down over her shoulder. There was a sprig of dried white heather on the grave, so delicate he knew it would crumble if he touched it. Was it the heather he’d noticed before?

  “Cook probably left it,” he said in a subdued voice.

  “White heather doesna grow in these hills,” Johnnie said, frowning.

  “Then it was a clansman.” Duncan didn’t want his daughter to harbor any illusions that might cause her more pain. “Forget about the past, Hannah. You have friends and family who will take care of you now. What your mother did is unforgivable, and I was little better.”

  Hannah nodded and rose to face him. “Everyone deserves forgiveness, Papa,” she said with a tender smile, “even you.”

  * * *

  The moon lit their way back to the castle. Hannah didn’t speak, reflecting on her past. She felt sorry for her mother and the disgrace she’d suffered. What kind of woman had she been like? Hannah’s father had said Cecelia was clever and pretty, but he offered little insight beyond that. But then he was still a mystery to Hannah himself.

  She stole a glimpse at his forbidding warrior’s profile. She couldn’t believe this powerful man was her papa. Had he really been the demon who had terrorized the castle in his youth? Hannah had heard the most amazing stories about his misdeeds. What a wicked bastard he must have been.

  She grinned, wishing she had known him then. She suspected she’d inherited his wild streak, which Mother Judith had worked so tirelessly to tame. Hannah was afraid the woman had failed, and she didn’t miss the convent at all. Coming to the castle made her feel as if she’d sprouted wings. She couldn’t wait to test her freedom.

  Her father helped her dismount when they reached the keep. He looked worried, and she knew he cared about her.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come with me and Marsali when we leave, lass?” he asked. “We’re both of us happy to give you a home.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Tears shone in her eyes. “This is my home.”

  “This?” He cast a dubious glance around the castle grounds. Johnnie had ambled off for a few rounds of golf in the moat. “This crumbling old pile of stones?”

  She nodded shyly, but the feeling in her heart was bold and sure. She loved this moldering castle with every fiber of her being. She accepted her eccentric clansmen with an unconditional love and loyalty that they, in their childlike warmth, were only too glad to return. Cook had welcomed her openly like the long-lost child she truly was. Hannah felt a sense of belonging for the first time in her life.

  She was convinced she had been brought back here for a purpose. She had visions of restoring the castle to its former glory. She had no idea how she would accomplish this miracle, but Mother Judith had taught her the power of faith.

  Hannah had found her heart’s home.

  Epilogue

  “I can’t believe I’m a duchess,” Marsali confided as she peered into the oversized trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’d barely gotten used to being the chieftain’s wife, and now we’re going away.”

  Effie handed her a chemise. Marsali tossed it halfheartedly into the trunk. “Things won’t be the same in the castle without you and the chieftain—I mean, the duke.”

  “Aye.” Marsali sighed, curling her bare feet under her bottom. “He’ll always be the chieftain to me too, Effie, and he’s promised we’ll come back every summer.”

  Effie polished her spectacles on one of Duncan’s shirts. “What a shame, Marsali.” />
  Marsali vented another sigh. Duncan was about to be appointed to the War Office, a cabinet position he swore he would dedicate to keeping peace, and there were rumors of a possible diplomatic post. “Well, in the scheme of things, Effie, I know that world peace is probably a wee bit more important than my personal life, but I’m glad he won’t be going off to battle, even though it means we’ll have to stay off and on in London, which everyone knows is a wicked city.”

  “I almost forgot,” Effie said, putting her hand to her mouth. “I just found out this morning that Ailis is expecting.”

  Marsali looked up with a grin. “More piglets, Effie. Well, congratulations. You’ll have your hands full.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone—it’s supposed to be a secret—but I’m expecting too.”

  “That was fast,” Effie said, grinning broadly.

  “Well, Effie, don’t tell the chieftain this either, but I’m working on another secret. If I can’t convince him to move back to the castle by the time the baby is due, I’m going to bring the whole clan to live in our Border manor house. Won’t he be surprised?”

  “I’ll say. By the way, is he still going to have Jamie hanged for treason?”

  “Worse. They’re cutting off his lovely golden hair.” Marsali grinned ruefully. “It’s a good thing for Jamie that the British soldier he beat up recovered with only a few bruises to show for it.”

  “But I thought the chieftain swore to kill Jamie if he ever set eyes on him again.”

  “Aye, he did. But Jamie begged his pardon on bended knee and promised never to trouble us again. Duncan’s arranged for his release, but he isn’t happy about it.”

  “Marsali!”

  Effie glanced at the door. “That’s the chieftain bellowing for you again.”

  “The duke,” Marsali corrected her, springing up from the floor as the door burst open and Duncan, exuding impatience and male energy, entered the room.

  “Aren’t you packed yet?” He stared in dismay at the garments strewn all over the bed. “My God, what have you done to my clothes? Put your shoes on. Good morning, Effie. Did you both forget about the ceremony at the cove?”

  “What ceremony?” Marsali asked, frowning as he began to rearrange the things she’d tossed willy-nilly into the trunk, including his uniform and lead soldiers.

  “Those are verra nice dolls, my lord,” Effie said politely.

  “It’s ‘his grace’ now.” Marsali shook her head wistfully at the thought. “What ceremony are you talking about, your grace?”

  Duncan closed the trunk, suppressing a smile. “The ceremony to name the temporary chieftainess. She’s to be sworn in on the white stone in fifteen minutes.”

  “She?” Marsali and Effie said in unison, astonished.

  Duncan picked up his black cockaded hat from the bed. “Yes, she. The only person in this damned castle who seems to command enough power to keep the clan under control. The woman most respected by my dunderhead kinsmen.” He paused, bowing with a broad grin at Marsali. “Except, of course, for my extraordinary wife.”

  Marsali smiled at his warm expression. “But then who…”

  He put on his hat, then tossed her a pair of shoes. “Cook. Now come along. We can’t be late.”

  There wasn’t a dry eye among the clan. Every last person—the men, women, and children gathered at the cove—shed at least one tear of sheer terror at the prospect of what lay ahead. The chieftainess had already threatened to make them take a bath once a month.

  Cook looked resplendent in her tartan knife-pleated kilt and plaid, with her badger-skin sporran at her ample waist, her sturdy legs encased in white woolen hose and silver-buckled shoes. Her iron-gray hair blew in the breeze, topped by a bonnet with a sprig of rue, the MacElgin plant.

  Marsali grinned as she watched Duncan step up to the white stone, washed smooth by the sea, to hand Cook the wand of office. The crowd gave a half-hearted cheer when, next, he presented her with the traditional sword, which she would wear next to her rolling pin. Agnes wasn’t a woman to forget her humble origins. His deep voice rose in the silence, sending chills of pride down Marsali’s spine as he began to recount Agnes’s deeds of bravery and loyal service.

  It was a ceremony that called for something special, a supernatural touch to make it a truly memorable event.

  Marsali gazed up at the horizon, where the blue-green Scottish sea met blue sky. She raised her arms, feeling power surge through her. A strong wind sprang up, churning whitecaps on the waves that pounded majestically against the shore. Thunder belched in the heavens. A violet-gold glow backlit the clouds.

  Duncan paused to glance down wryly at his wife. An ironic smile softened his austere face.

  She gave him a happy grin, immensely pleased with herself. It was just the right touch of magic. Not too overdone.

  From the deck of the shipwrecked frigate that sat at a lopsided angle below them, the wizard and his wayward daughter couldn’t have agreed more.

  “I wish I could do that,” Fiona said with a sigh of envy.

  “So do I,” her father said, patting her hand. “But please don’t try today. You just might sink the ship.”

  Fiona glanced up at the hawk riding an air current above the cove. “I wonder if Eun will follow her to London. Do you think she’ll ever use her power again?”

  “Only time will tell, Fiona.”

  “What a waste. I tried talking to the seals again, Papa, but I don’t think they understood me. Could you show me how just one more time?”

  Colum sighed in irritation. “Solving the problems of two troublesome girls is not how I planned to spend my twilight years, Fiona. At my age I should be studying immortality, or battling demons. I only have so much energy left.”

  The ceremony had ended. Duncan climbed down the staircase of stones to lift Marsali into the air, spinning her around and around until they collapsed together on the soft white sand. Their laughter blended melodiously into the wild music of the wind and the sea.

  Fiona giggled, clasping her hands to her chest in delight.

  There was even a ghost of a smile on the wizard’s gaunt face as he returned to his cabin and to the spells he had yet to cast for the magical child Marsali and Duncan would soon bring into the world.