by Anne Bishop
“Because you don’t want him to be so . . . common, so much like Royce or Baron Felston or any of the other gentry in Ridgeley. You want his heart to hold the leash on his loins.” Ari cut a slice of bread and spread jam over it. “Even if he does have a wife, accepting the fancy and coming here last night was his choice.” But it would be a bitter discovery if she found out he had a wife he should have been loyal to.
Neall certainly wouldn’t approve of her welcoming a married man into her bed, whether the Fae lived by a different moral code or not.
Sighing, Ari drank her tea. Leaving the bread on the worktable, she went to her bedroom to get dressed.
In some ways, Neall was as much of an outsider in Ridgeley as she was. Maybe that’s why, as children, they had become friends. Were still friends, even though she didn’t see much of him anymore. He seemed more . . . cautious . . . about being around her now.
“Which is neither here nor there,” Ari told herself firmly. “He doesn’t have any right to tell you what to do with your life or whose company you can or can’t enjoy.”
Since the words didn’t sound indifferent when spoken out loud, Ari clamped her teeth together. She could deny it as much as she liked, but what Neall thought did matter. Just as what Ahern thought mattered. Maybe because they were the only people left who cared about her at all.
Well, neither of them was likely to find out that she had a Fae lover for the next few days, so she was just chewing worries into her day, as her grandmother used to say.
After pulling on her oldest trousers and tunic, Ari swiftly braided her hair. There was no point in dressing in better clothes when she was going to be working all day. The only person who would see her was Ahern, and the only thing he would notice was the sweet bread she was bringing. So she’d take a quick walk over to his farm, then spend the day working in the garden.
And she would not—would not—let herself diminish the satisfaction she felt when she worked with the land because she was brooding about men. She just wouldn’t think about them. She wouldn’t think about Neall or Ahern. And, most of all, she wouldn’t think about the Lightbringer—or wonder if he was coming back tonight.
Chapter Nine
Even though she sensed they would have preferred no other company but their own, Dianna lingered over the morning meal she had shared with Lyrra and Aiden in one of the Clan house’s communal rooms. Lucian had returned early that morning, and she had wanted to meet him casually, when enough time had passed that it wouldn’t seem like she had been waiting for his return to find out what had happened last night.
Lyrra put her feet up on the padded bench and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Perhaps today I’ll whisper in someone’s ear and inspire him to write a great epic,” she said, smiling.
“If you do, try to pick someone with at least a little skill for writing,” Aiden replied, leaning back in his chair. His voice was bland, but his blue eyes sparkled.
Dropping her feet to the floor, Lyrra sat up straight and stiff. “You can’t tell me everyone you touch has golden fingers or a silver voice. I’ve heard some of the braying that passes for singing.”
“I’ll not deny it, but at least a bad song doesn’t have to be endured for long, while a bad epic . . .” He made an exaggerated shudder.
“Oh, I can see what this day will bring,” Dianna said. “Someone is going to write a very long, very bad epic, which will be set to music. It will be called The Battle of the Bard and the Muse. The music will be played off-key and off-tempo. The words, which were written as prose, will be stuffed into the melody with no regard to any sense of rhythm. Wherever it is performed, there will be much weeping, which will have nothing to do with the story itself.”
They just stared at her.
“Perhaps the Lady of the Moon should be the epic’s subject,” Lyrra said coolly after a long pause.
“Perhaps,” Aiden agreed quietly.
There was no sparkle in Aiden’s eyes and no friendliness in Lyrra’s. Apparently only the Muse and the Bard could tease each other and not pay for the jest.
“I ask your indulgence,” Dianna said, feeling annoyed by the necessity to say the words. Especially to Lyrra. The Muse came from a Clan a little farther north, but close enough that the Clans visited each other fairly often, and the two women had been friends for several years. Aiden came from a Midlands Clan and until he had come to her Clan’s house to help find a way to stop Tir Alainn’s destruction, she’d only met him a few times, despite their being distant kin. But the few weeks he’d been living with her Clan were quite enough to make her wary of his sharp mind and even sharper tongue.
“It was meant to tease, as you were doing,” Dianna said. “It would seem I have no skill for such things. And . . . my thoughts are a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Oooh?” Lyrra said.
Before Dianna could decide how much to say, Falco entered the room and strode over to them.
“Have you seen Lucian today?” Falco demanded.
“Not yet,” Dianna replied. “Why?”
“He’s acting strangely. And you wouldn’t believe what he’s asked the Cloud Sisters to do.”
Noting Lyrra’s swift, concerned glance at her, Dianna remained focused on the Lord of the Hawks. “What did he ask?”
Falco shook his head. “You have to talk to him, Dianna. You have to find out why he’s . . . different . . . today.”
Dianna felt chilled. She had urged Lucian to go to that cottage last night. If there was something wrong with him because of it . . . But what could have happened that would make him different? What kind of creature was this female?
“Perhaps he’s in love,” Aiden said blandly.
Dianna’s head whipped around to face the Bard. Did Aiden know where Lucian had gone last night? Did he know he was talking about a Fae male becoming enamored with a human female? It didn’t matter. The barb in that bland comment had found its mark.
Oh, there were Fae who became tangled up with human females and not only lost all sense of what was right and proper but actually developed feelings for the creatures. But none of them were Lucian, none of them were the Lightbringer. For him to become ensnared . . .
“Dianna?” Lyrra said softly.
Fighting to appear calm, Dianna inclined her head slightly toward Falco. “My thanks for bringing this to my attention, Falco. I’ll talk to my brother.”
“I would advise you to do it soon,” Falco said. “It’s disturbing the rest of the Clan to see him acting so strange.”
No one spoke until Falco left the room.
“I saw Lucian briefly this morning,” Aiden said.
“And?” Dianna prodded. “How did he seem?”
“Pleased.” Aiden paused. “He wasn’t here last night.”
“No.”
“And he hadn’t gone to visit another Clan.”
Dianna shook her head slowly. “But where he was is no concern of anyone but—”
“I am not of this Clan, but Lucian and I are still kin through our fathers,” Aiden said sharply. He narrowed his eyes and studied her. “As you and I, therefore, are kin. It is my turn to ask for indulgence. I should have not been so sharp about being teased by you.”
“There are different rules for kin?” Dianna said, forcing a smile.
“There are,” Aiden said, not returning the smile. “Will you talk to him?”
And say what? Dianna wondered. “Not yet.” She raised a hand to prevent the protests Lyrra and Aiden seemed ready to make. “There is something that must be done before Lucian and I talk.”
“Don’t let it wait too long,” Aiden said. Then he hummed a few bars of “The Lover’s Lament.”
Understanding the warning, Dianna stood up. “We’ll talk again this evening.”
“Good hunting,” Lyrra said softly.
Dianna inclined her head and left the room.
Good hunting, she thought as she hurried to her rooms. Yes. Not the usual kind of hunt, but a hunt n
onetheless. Until she actually saw this female creature for herself, she was holding an empty quiver instead of sharp arguments that could find their mark.
If Lucian was truly acting as strangely as Falco indicated, she would need arguments sharp enough to pierce a heart.
Neall didn’t need to see the stone marker to know he was now on the part of the road that cut through Brightwood. He could feel a subtle change in the air, and his mood lightened in response to it. Even the gelding, which had been bred and raised on Ahern’s farm, could sense the boundaries of Ari’s land—and could sense them a little too well.
Shortening the reins just enough to keep Darcy’s attention, Neall said, “We’ll approach at a dignified trot rather than cantering into the yard like unmannered colts.”
Darcy snorted, then tested Neall’s sincerity by shifting from an easy trot to a brisk one.
“We aren’t doing this,” Neall warned. His voice didn’t hold the sincerity it should have, but his hands were firm. The result was what he expected—a compromise in speed that obeyed the command from his hands but had listened carefully to the tone of his voice.
Well, they’d just get to the cottage that much sooner, and he couldn’t argue with that.
Yesterday had been a misery. At breakfast, it had only taken a glance at Odella’s face to know that the man she had met on the Summer Moon had not been to her liking, and that the man’s skills as a lover—or his lack of them—had made him even less appealing. The fact that she couldn’t refuse him until the dark of the moon without having the magic in the fancy turn on her made it even worse. It would have been bad enough to endure one time with a man who disappointed, but to suffer him again and again . . .
Seeing the unhappiness in his cousin’s face had made Neall feel more sympathy for Odella, but it was a small cup of sympathy, and weak. Odella had not only brought this on herself by buying love magic from Granny Gwynn, she had also, with no kind intent, boxed Ari into the same corner.
Royce had been suffering from a rough night with the bottle, an overindulgence that he’d probably hoped would numb the fear of seeing the Wild Hunt, and had been more abrasive than usual.
Then Baron Felston began making barbed comments about how he, Neall, had probably spent the Summer Moon in his own virtuous bed instead of “flexing his muscles” as any other young man would have done. Knowing he would have been roundly condemned for “flexing his muscles,” especially if any young woman came forward a few weeks later and accused him of getting her with child, didn’t take the sting out of the baron’s remarks.
Despite what the baron sometimes implied, he was as hungry as any other young man for the pleasure a woman’s body could give, but knowing that Felston wouldn’t hesitate to try to force him into a marriage that would trap him here made him even more cautious about accepting an invitation from any woman who was looking for a husband and a household of her own. That fleeting pleasure couldn’t compare with the need to go home to his mother’s land. Besides, he’d given his heart to Ari so long ago he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t love her.
To make a bad start to the day even worse, Royce had decided to go with him to check the tenant farms and see what needed to be done. He’d expected Royce to grow bored with playing lord of the manor and return home or ride into Ridgeley to meet with his friends at the tavern. But Royce, with cutting remarks and steady complaints, had stayed with him throughout the long day.
Which was why he hadn’t come to Brightwood yesterday, and had even avoided the tenant farms that bordered Ari’s land—especially after the second time Royce suggested going there. He’d wondered why Royce had been pushing to visit the cottage while he was with him, and he’d wondered why his cousin hadn’t simply gone alone. It wasn’t until they were approaching the home yard and Royce finally relaxed that Neall had understood. Royce had wanted to go to Brightwood, probably to find out where Ari had been on the Summer Moon, but he’d been afraid to ride there alone in case he met up with the Huntress and her shadow hounds. In fact, he’d simply been afraid to ride anywhere alone, but he hadn’t wanted to remain at home under Baron Felston’s critical gaze. So Neall had spent the day silently fretting over Ari’s broken kitchen door and that he couldn’t ride over and fix it for her while Royce was with him.
But that was yesterday. This was today, the cottage was in sight, and he had an hour he could spare for a visit.
As he trotted past the cottage, intending to tether Darcy by the unused cow shed, something caught his eye. He reined in hard enough to set the gelding on its haunches, then murmured a wordless apology to the animal as he stared at the cottage’s front door.
It was open. Not wide open, not obviously open. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if a light gust of wind hadn’t moved the door just enough to catch his attention, and it was something anyone else wouldn’t have thought about twice.
Except he’d been visiting Brightwood since he was a child, and he knew the front door was rarely used and was never left open unless someone was working right outside.
Uneasy now, he dismounted and led Darcy to the cow shed as quietly as possible, then came back to the front of the cottage to study the door.
Ari might have opened the door for some reason this morning and then hadn’t realized the latch hadn’t caught securely when she closed the door. She might have wanted to check the flower beds without walking over sloppy ground. The ground, like the road, was drying quickly from last night’s rain, but Ari got up with the sun, and the ground would have been very wet. In the gray light, she could have easily missed the fact that the door hadn’t latched properly.
Or something could be very wrong.
Pushing the door open, he remained on the threshold, the warding spells making his skin tingle.
“Ari?” he called.
No answer.
He closed his eyes, felt the power in him stir. Astra, Ari’s grandmother, had recognized the power in him. It wasn’t as refined as a witch’s magic, nor as strong, but it let him feel things that other people couldn’t, it gave him an instinctive knowledge of woodland creatures, and it helped him sense magic when it was used around him. If his mother had lived, she might have taught him how to use this gift. Or perhaps his father, being half Fae, could have taught him better since, from what little he could remember, his father’s diluted ability with magic had been more like his own. As it was, what little he knew about the power that was his heritage he had learned passively from being around the witches of Brightwood and by working with it on his own.
No matter. He knew enough for this.
Raising his right hand, he pressed it against that unseen, magical barrier that kept people out unless they were welcomed in.
“You know me,” he said softly, feeling the magic of the warding spell pushing against him as he channeled his own power into his hand. “You know me. I’ve been welcomed in this house before. Let me in. As I will it, so mote it be.”
The magic in the warding spell didn’t pull back like a curtain the way it would have if Ari had welcomed him, but it thinned from feeling like an invisible stone wall to a barrier of thick cobwebs.
As Neall crossed the threshold, he shuddered at the sensation of wispy strands brushing over his hand and face. He shook off the feeling. It was easy enough with something else pushing at his senses.
Someone had been here. Someone new, different, unknown. He could sense the lingering presence that was layered over the familiar feel of Ari’s cottage.
She wasn’t there. He could sense that too. Still, he quickly peeked into her bedroom to make sure she wasn’t there, then the workroom that held the looms and spinning wheels and baskets of yarns that Ari used for her weaving.
As he headed for the kitchen, he glanced down at a chair pulled back a little from the table . . . and froze. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the saddlebags when Ari said, “Neall?”
She was standing in the open doorway, looking puzzled. She was wearing her oldest clothes
, the ones she used when she worked in her garden, and she was holding a small, empty basket in one hand. There was color in her cheeks, and her dark, unbound hair looked like it had danced with the wind. It hurt to look at her, standing there so wild and lovely. Especially now.
Crossing the threshold, Ari looked back at the doorway and then at him.
“Your front door was open, and I was concerned,” Neall said, striving to keep his voice calm.
She frowned at the doorway, but the way her shoulders relaxed told him she probably knew why the door had been open.
“But . . . How did you get in?” Ari asked, turning back to him.
One day he would tell her about his parents and his power. But not today. Not now.
He tried to smile. “I’ve been welcomed many times over the years, Ari. I guess the warding spells recognized me.” The smile faded. The saddlebags sat on the chair between them. “Or maybe it was because I was concerned that the warding spells let me in. They didn’t feel the way they do when you’re here, though.”
She tipped her head a little to one side and looked at him thoughtfully. “How did they feel?”
“It was like walking through thick cobwebs.”
She made a face, brushed her hand across one cheek as if she could feel the cobwebs herself.
“You were out early,” Neall said. Who do the saddlebags belong to, Ari?
She set the small basket on the table. “I took a loaf of sweet bread over to Ahern to thank him for fixing my kitchen door.”
So he couldn’t even do that for her.
His chest hurt. Was this what the songs and stories called heartache?
“You have company,” Neall said, glancing at the saddlebags.
“No,” Ari said quickly. “That is . . .” She looked away.
“You met him on the Summer Moon?”
Her shoulders went back and her chin went up. Defensive pride. He understood it well.
“And if I did?” she asked, challenging.