The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3)

by Barbara Longley

  Mayhap she simply wished to lay eyes upon him. He was her progeny after all, no matter how distant the tie, and no matter how much it galled him that she was responsible for the loss of his father. Besides, he owed her a debt of gratitude. Were it not for her meddling, he would not have survived his youth, nor would he have been blessed with the foster family who had raised him. ’Twas certain she had done what she had for him to atone for the loss of his da.

  He glanced toward the stone-arch bridge spanning the Esk. “Move the wagon across the river to the far side of the next rise. Wait for me there. I’ll go after Nevan and the lads. If all is well, the rest of you can visit the fair in turns.” He met each of their eyes before asking, “Agreed?”

  “Aye.” Murray turned his horse back to the wagon and ordered the squires to take up their places. Gregory rode to the rear of their small procession as they got the wagon moving again.

  “Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you? Isn’t it you who bids us never to go anywhere alone?” Tieren signed, reverting again to the private method of communicating Lady True had taught them.

  “Not this time,” he signed back. “’Tis folly to go anywhere near the fae.” Hunter shook his head. “Best I do so without risking your hide as well. Stay with the wagon.” He huffed out a breath. “If all goes well, I’ll be back within the hour, two at most.”

  He started down the hill, anxiety tying him into knots. Once he got to the periphery of the fair, tension stretched his nerves taut. He couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness overwhelming him. Though all appeared ordinary enough, he noticed the lack of patrons or villagers. Where were Nevan and his lads?

  He scanned his surroundings, vigilant for aught amiss, for any danger lurking in the shadows between the painted wagons. Vendors called to him as he passed, offering their wares. Swarthy men and women, dark-eyed and raven-haired, peered at him, their expressions slightly mocking. Aye, as he’d suspected, this was no ordinary fair. These folk were the wandering Romany, and all kent they were in league with the fae.

  The smell of meat pies and roasted fowl caused a rumbling in his stomach, yet he didn’t dare partake. The closer he came to the faerie’s tent, the slower his pace. The flap of Giselle’s tent swung aside, revealing the old crone exactly as he remembered her. Hunter shivered in his boots and fought the urge to turn tail and gallop for the hills.

  “Hunter! How fortuitous that our paths should meet thus. I have yearned to lay eyes upon you for far too long, and here you are.” Her dark eyes gleamed, and a cunning smile lit her wrinkled face.

  Hunter’s blood rushed through his veins. His ears rang, and sweat beaded his brow. Though he could not read her like he could ordinary souls, she fair pulsed with power and magic. “Madame Giselle.” He made her a slight bow. “I suspect luck had no part in our meeting this day.”

  She cackled as he dismounted, and dread settled like lead in his gut. Hunter tied Doireann’s reins to a low-hanging pine bough and turned to face her. Masking his expression, he did his best to hide the fear and revulsion being in her presence elicited. He wanted no part of the unnatural association he had with the fae. Gladly would he give up the gifts bestowed upon him if it meant severing the ties of kinship that bound them.

  “You have naught to fear from me, Grandson.”

  Was that hurt he spied flashing through her eyes? Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide his feelings. Why did he think he could? He’d gotten his abilities from her. Surely she’d be aware of everything he felt and thought.

  “Come in.” She beckoned with a gesture and preceded him into the tent. “I wish only to spend a bit of time with you.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Mayhap I’ll tell your fortune whilst you’re here.”

  “Nay.” He ducked to enter, his glance darting around the interior. A trunk sat to one side, and fresh rushes covered the hard-packed ground. In the center a roughly hewn table and two chairs had been set. A teapot and two mugs resting next to a deck of cards drew his attention. “I dinna need you to tell my fortune or my future, Madame Giselle. By my will alone do I forge my future, and by my sweat and blood do I earn my fortune.” She cackled again, and his muscles tensed for flight.

  “By whose blood? Thanks to me, none can touch you with mere weapons of steel. Because my blood runs through your veins, you have the ability to anticipate how your enemies will strike before the strike occurs.” She took a seat at the table. “Are you so certain of what the future holds for you, my lad?”

  “Aye.”

  “Mayhap the path you’ve set your feet upon leads you astray.” She shrugged. “’Tis possible fate has other plans in store.”

  “I am a knight, and I have made a vow which I intend to keep. Indeed, everything that I have worked toward these five years past has to do with keeping that promise.” In fact, he’d spent the whole of his life attempting to live up to the faith and expectations placed upon him by his foster family and clan. Their approval and high esteem meant everything to him. He owed them his life and his loyalty.

  “I ken your true identity and what you are.” He remained standing, his posture rigid. “I suspect you are aware of the intentions I made clear the day Sky Elizabeth was born. Think you to alter my path or to induce me to renege?” He raised an eyebrow and sent her a pointed look. “I willna. What is it you want from me?”

  “Aye. I’m well aware of the vow you made as a mere lad of but five of your mortal years. Sit.” She gestured to the chair across from hers. “Have some tea. You are my kin.” She canted her head and studied him. “Is it so beyond the realm of possibility that I wish only to spend a bit of time in your company? I have not seen you for far too long. The Tuatha have hearts not unlike those of mortals. We too bear affection for our progeny, whether they accept that affection or not.”

  His eyes widened, and a sliver of guilt wedged its way into his heart. He had intended to thank her for saving his life, and he’d done naught but posture defensively. “My apologies if I have offended you, madam. For certes I have you to thank for my life, and I am grateful.” He bowed to her again and sat down.

  “Tea?” She filled the two mugs with the steaming contents of the pot, and the scent of herbs and honey wafted up around them in a cloud of steam. She slid one of the mugs toward him.

  “My thanks.” He took a sip and struggled to come up with something to say. What conversation could he offer that would be of interest to one such as she?

  “Hunter, you are a direct descendant of the goddess Danu, as am I. My father is the high king of the Tuatha Dé Danann and also your kin. You come from a royal line. Never think yourself unworthy.” Her tone had taken on a haughty cadence. “’Twas my mortal husband who traveled here from Eire eons ago. He began the MacConnell clan on this land and ruled a vast holding. Time has reduced that proud kingdom to naught, but never forget where you come from.”

  Did she see what lay in his innermost thoughts and in his heart? He yearned for more than knighthood—a title, land and a strong keep. Only then would his offer for Sky be worthy of acceptance. His mind reeled with Giselle’s revelation. He was royalty and descended from the first MacConnell? Was this the source of his yearning and for the ambition thrumming through him? Mayhap, but it served him naught at present, and he needed to keep his wits about him. No matter what she said, he kent well enough the ways of the fae.

  “Shall I declare to the world that I am royalty and the descendant of a goddess of old?” He snorted. “Who would believe me, and how would such a claim alter my rank within the society in which I live?” He shook his head. “Nay, I canna, lest I be ostracized, or worse, condemned for a madman and thrown into some deep, dank dungeon to be shackled in irons. I’m grateful for the gifts my lineage has bestowed upon me. Truth be told, ’tis the reason for my success, but I canna make it public. No document of patents from you will aid me. I must make my own way.”

  “Ah, bu
t you are grateful?”

  “You may be certain that I am. Were it no’ for your intervention, I would no’ be here today. I have you to thank for my family and for my place within the MacKintosh clan.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes filled with a triumphant glint, and her face creased with amusement. “Then you will not be averse to doing me a small favor in return?”

  “Och!” He plowed his fingers through his hair, his position suddenly untenable. “I am no match for you, Madame Giselle. What is it you wish of me?” Apprehension sent his heart racing again.

  “Restore balance.” She shrugged. “Make right a wrong of old.”

  “Is that all,” he bit out in a dry tone.

  She laughed, only this time the sound was less a cackle and more melodious. Tiny bumps rose upon his flesh. “If you please, dinna shift your appearance. I canna abide your true mien. I will admit I fear you in your fae form. ’Tis no’ of this world.”

  “As you wish, my lad.” Her smile softened. “I do not want you to fear me. I wish only the best for you, and I hope one day you will see that truth for yourself.” Her expression turned pensive as she scrutinized him. “You are so like him—so much like the mortal man I wed. It does my heart good to look upon you.”

  He squirmed in his chair and gripped his mug with both hands. “The favor?”

  “Ah, yes.” Her gaze sharpened. “’Tis a small thing, really.”

  Frustration overwhelmed him. For certes this favor would delay his homecoming or inconvenience him greatly in some unforeseen way. God’s blood, he hoped it did not involve time travel! Too well he kent the havoc ’twould wreak upon his well-laid plans. His entire being rebelled at the thought, and mortification burned a path through to his very soul. He had been so easily manipulated, and now he was truly caught up in her machinations. “What must I do to make right this wrong that in no way involved myself in its inception?”

  “Ha!” She shook with mirth. “Trust your instincts, Hunter, and leave the rest to me.”

  “I dinna wish to leave my time, madam. Do I have your assurance that this favor involves the present, and no’ some distant future or past?”

  “Grandson, you must learn to give up your false sense of control. Your fate, no matter how you will it otherwise, is already written in the stars by another’s hand.” She rose from her place and pointed toward the rear flap of her tent. “Go now, and have faith. You are my kin. You will always hold my deepest affection.”

  May the saints preserve me! He didn’t want her affection. Hadn’t he learned long ago the trouble such affection had caused his kin—both MacKintosh and MacConnell? He clung to the notion, no matter how false Giselle deemed it, that he did indeed control the course his life would take. Hadn’t he proved it these five years past? He rose, and a sickening dizziness overtook him. The world around him flattened, and pressure assaulted him from all sides, pulling and pushing all at the same time. “Nay! Dinna send me—”

  “This way.”

  Giselle shoved him through the rear door of her tent into a rending vortex so powerful he feared he would not survive. For certes he would be torn to bits. God’s blood, the pain was enough to make him weep, and the fleeting images and flashing lights racing by made him ill. Trapped in the center of the force hurtling him forward, all he could do was grit his teeth and pray.

  Just when he thought he could not bear another second, whatever held him in its grip spat him out, and he landed with a thud. Prostrate on the ground with the tent still at his back, Hunter shook his head to dislodge the disorienting dizziness and fatigue overwhelming him.

  The sound of steel against steel fell upon his ears where he lay. Damnation! He’d landed in the midst of a battle. He raised his head. Shock and the need to survive restored his wits in a rush. Spectators ringed the combatants, booing and cheering them on. Some were dressed like he was, and others wore garments not unlike those Lady True wore when hunting. As he regained his feet, Hunter glanced toward the combatants. His vision went red with rage.

  A large knight attacked a younger knight half his size and less than half his weight. Still, the lad acquitted himself well against the brute. He must have just earned his spurs, because he could be no more than ten and seven or eight winters. Hunter straightened just as the youth tripped over an exposed tree root and fell flat on his back. The larger knight gave a shout of glee and moved in for the kill.

  “Nay,” Hunter shouted as instinct took over. With a battle cry, he drew his claymore and lunged forward, blocking the blow meant for the lad. Straddling the youth where he lay on the ground, Hunter engaged the blackguard. “Coward! Knave!” In a flurry of strikes, he beat the man back. “If you wish for a fight, let me accommodate you.”

  “Who are you?” The knight parried his blows easily enough. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Upholding my vow to protect those weaker than myself. As you ought.” The familiar sense of anticipation flowed from the knight to him, and he blocked the blows coming at him.

  “Wait!” The youth clambered back and leaped to his feet. “Stop!”

  But it was too late. He was in the throes of battle lust, and he had no cause to cease that he could see. Hunter attacked, slicing through the knight’s chain mail. He drew first blood, leaving a gash across the man’s shoulder. His opponent hissed in pain and faltered. Hunter took advantage, sending the man’s sword flying out of reach.

  Screams erupted from the crowd. Men bearing arms surged forward. Hunter gripped the lad’s wrist and dashed toward Giselle’s tent. He tossed his charge through the entrance first and dove in after him.

  Giselle stood by the tent’s opposite exit. “Hurry. Through here.” She held the flap aside.

  The young knight struggled to get past him toward the rear exit. Once again Hunter gripped his wrist. “That way is no’ safe, ye wee fool.”

  He struggled to free himself from Hunter’s grip. “You don’t understand. Let me go!”

  “Be off,” Giselle commanded. “Go before they come through after you.”

  Hunter’s gaze went between the panicked face of the lad and Giselle’s imploring look. Indecision seized him. “Call nine-one-one!” The roaring shouts grew closer. “Stop him! Get him!”

  The sounds of pursuit spurred him into action. Hunter dashed through the tent’s front opening, dragging the lad behind him. Once again the debilitating force took hold, hurling them both through a bone-crushing tunnel that tore at his limbs as it propelled them forward. The ground rushed up to meet them, and the lad let out a cry as they came to a sudden and painful halt.

  “We must be away,” Hunter shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He helped the youth up and tossed him atop his mount. Hunter snatched Doireann’s reins from the tree and swung up behind him. Spurring his destrier into a full gallop, he wended his way through the wagons, booths and tables, heading toward the hills as if chased by the devil himself.

  He topped the first rise and urged his horse onward to the bridge across the Esk. They raced over the cobbles, Doireann’s steel-shod hooves raising a thunderous clatter. Finally they were upon the slope where his men awaited him on the other side.

  “You moron!” The lad wriggled as if he meant to leap from the horse’s back in mid-gallop.

  “Moron?” He encircled the fool’s waist, lest he injure himself trying to get free. “I just saved your life.”

  “No you didn’t.” He tried to pry free of Hunter’s hold. “I didn’t need saving.”

  About the same time the swell of breasts atop his forearm registered, along with the slender curve of a feminine waist where it met the slight flare of hips, the cap upon his captive’s head blew off in the wind. A wealth of silken auburn tresses cascaded down across his chest and arms, and a sweet floral scent filled his nose.

  He was a she.

  “Bloody hell!” That made the attack against her ev
en more foul. He checked over his shoulder for any signs of pursuit and saw none. Hunter reined his horse to a stop.

  She turned to glare daggers at him. “Take me back.”

  Now that he got a closer look at her, he wondered how he could have mistaken those comely features for that of a lad. She had wide-set dark-brown eyes, framed in thick lashes. A sprinkle of freckles covered the bridge of her finely wrought nose and high cheekbones. Her mouth—wide with full, ripe lips—drew into a straight line of displeasure at his perusal.

  He stared, disconcerted. “I saved your life. You wish to be returned to the cur who attacked you?” He scowled, taking his arm from around her waist. “Why are you dressed as a knight? You’ve no business wearing chain mail and spurs. None. What manner of lass are you to wield a broadsword thus?” He dismounted, reaching up to help her down.

  She batted his hands away, swung her leg over his mount’s back and slid free to land lightly upon her feet. “How is anything about me your business?” She widened her stance and crossed her arms in front of her. “Take me back where you found me right now, or you will regret it.”

  He already regretted it. “Think you to threaten me?” He grunted and pointed at his chest. “I am a blooded knight and undefeated upon the field. What harm can a wee lass such as yourself do to me? You’ve no right to carry that weapon, much less to wield it. No. Right. Do you no’ ken ’tis a crime to impersonate a knight of the realm? You should be—”

  She let out a growl of frustration and whipped around so fast he had no time to react. Her booted foot connected with the center of his chest, sending him reeling back. Before he could regain his balance, she crouched low and swung her leg behind his heels to trip him. He went sprawling.

  Bloody hell! Somehow she’d managed to wrest the dirk from his belt in the process. With her boot once again planted firmly upon his chest, she pressed the point of his dagger against his throat. He seethed. Humiliation and anger fought for dominance within him.