Warrior’s Redemption

by Melissa Mayhue

  Like Dani couldn’t have predicted this happening from the moment her date had arrived to pick her up this evening, a leer on his face and a bottle of Jack tucked into the back of his waistband.

  She stepped backward into her doorway, turning her head from the scent of alcohol and too much aftershave wafting off her evening’s companion.

  “Whatcha say, Dani-girl? You gonna save me a long drive home tonight?” The corner of Lover Boy’s mouth lifted in a half smile that had likely melted a whole slew of hearts in this part of the state. “I ain’t had me no complaints yet.”

  Did he honestly expect that she’d be impressed by references from other women?

  “There’s always a first time for everything, you know.”

  His expression hardened and she immediately regretted her stab at humor. Aunt Jean always had said that sharp tongue of hers was going to get her into trouble.

  “You turnin’ me down?” No trace of humor in his response. “Or you gonna do the right thing and let me stay the night here after that fancy dinner I treated you to.”

  The vision of opening her purse and tossing cash at him flittered through her mind, quickly discarded. She’d put up with his wandering hands and his innuendo-filled conversation all night. That more than made up for the lousy fifteen dollars he’d dropped on her meal.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Clay.” Think? Hell, she knew. She was simply trying her best to be nice. “I have to be in the diner bright and early in the morning. Those cinnamon rolls don’t bake themselves.”

  “Won’t bother me none if you crawl out early.” He leaned toward her, his oily half smile back in place, one hand reaching out to trail her cheek as if his physical touch might push her to decide in his favor.

  Not happening. Another step back and she was inside, able to use the door as a barrier.

  “Sorry, Clay. I had a nice evening, but I’m beat. See you later, okay?”

  She didn’t wait for his reply before shutting the door and sliding the bolt home, setting the glass chimes next to her door tinkling.

  This was exactly the reason she didn’t like to date customers who frequented the truck stop where she worked. More often than not, they assumed that just because she lived in a room at the attached motel she’d be quick to hop into bed with them at the end of the evening.

  “As if,” she whispered, tossing her purse on the table before crossing the room to perch on the edge of her one easy chair.

  Just because she’d agreed to let this guy drive her all the way into Cheyenne for a decent meal she didn’t have to cook herself was no call for him to go expecting more than a kiss on the cheek.

  But he had expected more. They always expected more.

  Too bad the few men she had dated since she’d been here weren’t more honest with each other when they discussed the evening they’d spent with her. A little honesty might have saved good ol’ Clay a long, disappointing drive home. Alone.

  “Screw him,” she growled, kicking off the uncomfortable heels she’d worn for her evening out.

  The words had hardly passed her lips before she started to chuckle. “Or more precisely, not.”

  Besides, she had bigger plans for her evening than Clay Carter could possibly imagine.

  She leaned forward and flipped on the television, waiting for the grainy picture to come into focus. As long as it was taking, the wind must be wreaking havoc with the satellite dish again. Not that it really mattered. She only turned it on for background noise while she got everything ready for what she’d planned tonight.

  Within minutes, she was out of her dress and into a comfy, oversize T-shirt. One more task and then she could get down to business. She pulled on a pair of jeans, slid her feet into some well-worn boots, and stuck her arms into the heavy sweater hanging by the door before opening her tiny refrigerator to remove a small carton of milk.

  Opening the door, she stepped out into the cold and tugged the collar of her old sweater tight around her neck in an attempt to block the wind now tinged with the first light touch of sleet. She hurried across the parking lot and out to the back side of the little motel, away from the lights of the truck stop next door, to an ancient cottonwood tree. Squinting against the biting sting of tiny ice pellets hitting her face, she poured milk into the little bowl she’d fitted into the crook of the lowest branch.

  “Here you go, Faeries. Hope you’re all in a listening mood tonight.”

  She hadn’t missed a day in fifteen years and she wasn’t going to miss tonight, not even if it meant freezing her butt off out here. But she had to admit, one little sign of appreciation for a change would be a nice thing.

  Ice clung to her hair by the time she stepped back inside her warm little room, melting almost immediately into little drops of cold water.

  Great. Either she took time to dry it now, or she’d be a mass of out-of-control curls in the morning. A glance at the clock confirmed it was already after eleven. No time for primping her hair.

  Curls it would be.

  A quick towel-dry and she reached to turn off the television, stopping as an ad for some party shop in Denver caught her attention. The actors cavorted like amateurs in front of the camera, dressed up as witches and ghosts, inviting all the grown-up goblins in for a visit.

  “Damn,” she muttered as she hit the switch, sending the screen to black.

  She’d better hurry or it would be too late. Tonight was Halloween, Samhain to the ancient peoples and to the Faeries. The one night of the year when the separation between the world of man and the world of Faeries was most penetrable. She’d waited for over three months for this very night, and there was no way she was going to miss this chance! Less than an hour left before it was over and she’d have to wait for another whole year for this opportunity to return again.

  She had time. It was why she’d insisted on coming home when she had.

  The little bag of stones lay at the bottom of her dresser drawer along with a thin, white candle, wrapped in the soft green velvet scarf she’d bought especially for them. They’d cost her more than a week’s pay, but they were worth every penny. Or they would be, if they worked.

  She shoved aside her small table and chair, clearing as much floor space as possible.

  What she needed was a circle. Faeries loved circles.

  One by one, she laid out her stones, reading from the strips of paper where she’d written their names and why she’d chosen them.

  “Fairy quartz for heightened energy even while it calms. Apophyllite, the fairy stone, to help in working with Faeries. Staurolite, to channel information from the ancients.”

  She only hoped the ancient Fae were paying attention tonight.

  “Amazonite for success and psychic abilities. Turquoise, for guidance through the unknown. Psilomelane, for scrying and out-of-body travel. Mica, to improve visions and mystical clarity. Jade, for dreams and realization of potential. Iolite, the shaman stone, to help with visions and spiritual growth. Chalcedony, the sacred Native American miracle stone. Clear quartz, a power stone to intensify the energy of my circle.”

  She set the last one in place and stood back to admire her work. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it would have to do. The quartz she’d truly wanted, one the shop owner had called a Time Link crystal, had reached for the sky with four beautifully shaped points that were said to give insight into the future as well as aid in finding meaning in the past. It had been very large and so far out of her price range, she’d had to settle for this one, with a point on only one side. A link to the past, the salesclerk had claimed. Close enough.

  Eleven stones.

  The twelfth was in the ring she wore on her right hand, her birthstone, a garnet. Her most valued possession, it had been a gift from her aunt on her sixteenth birthday.

  “For romantic love, for passion, for sensuality and intimacy,” she quoted, holding her hand out in front of her.

  After an evening like she’d just suffered through, heaven
knew she could use a dash of all those in her life.

  Eleven stones for the Fae, one for her. Even the Fae should see that ratio as more than fair.

  She pushed her hair back over her shoulder, realizing as she did so that she was still wearing her ratty, oversize T-shirt.

  That would never do for meeting the Faerie Queen. If she showed up.

  “When she shows up,” she corrected herself. This was no time for doubting. “Not if. When. I meant to say when.”

  Another glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes left.

  What did she have that was pretty? Not that she could hope to be as beautiful as a Faerie, but still, she should dress for the occasion. There was that long, gauzy sundress she’d bought at a garage sale a few years back. The one with little flowers embroidered over the bodice. Part of the appeal of the dress was that it always reminded her of something that would have been worn in a different century.

  It would be perfect.

  She pulled the tee off even as she headed for her drawers. In minutes she’d found what she wanted, dropping the cream-colored cloud of material down over her head before lighting the candle she’d left on the foot of her bed. It felt right.

  Ten minutes.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the circle and held her candle aloft. Its flame glinted off the facets cut into the stone of her ring. She closed her eyes to eliminate the distraction and forced all errant thoughts from her mind even as she expelled the air from her lungs.

  Concentrate. The time had come.

  “Your Highness?” She stumbled over the words, wondering at the last minute how she could possibly catch the Faerie Queen’s attention. “Fifteen years, Your Highness. I’ve given you fifteen years. Milk for the Faeries every single day, even when I ate nothing for my own dinner.” That sounded an awful lot like dramatic whining, not at all what she was going for. But she had been so patient for so long. Lord, but she was tired of waiting for them to notice her. Tired of just existing while she waited for whatever it was her life was intended to be to begin.

  A deep breath to settle her nerves and she tried again.

  “Fifteen years. I know that’s probably not even a blink of an eye for you, but it’s three-quarters of my life. Devoted to you. Believing in you no matter what anyone thought of me for it. Believing that you have some higher purpose for me. Knowing that I don’t belong here and waiting for you to show me exactly where it is that I do belong. But now . . .”

  Again she faltered. Now, what? What did she want, truly want, from the Fae?

  “I’m ready. For whatever that purpose is. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of watching the world pass me by. I’m tired of always being on the outside looking in. Please. I wish you would help me find the path to where I’m supposed to be. I just want to be where I belong. With people I can belong to.”

  Dani waited, the sound of blood pounding in her ears louder even than the semis pulling off the road outside.

  Hair tickled at her face as if stirred by an errant breeze, followed by a light tinkling of the delicate chimes hanging by the door.

  Her eyes snapped open in time to see the flame on her candle flicker and go out, leaving her bathed in a soft green glow of light.

  That wasn’t right. The lights had been on in the room. Regular, normal lights, not a single green bulb among them.

  The errant breeze had morphed into an insistent wind, whipping the ends of her hair against her skin like little lashes.

  She found herself unable to move, frozen to the spot while a million multicolored lights streamed across the room toward her. Over her, around her, through her, they filled her vision, lifting her up like a rag doll. She fought for her next breath as if the weight of the world sucked the air from her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut as the sensation of her body hurtling through space overwhelmed her senses. And over it all, as impossible as it seemed, she could swear the last thing she heard was a woman’s voice.

  You had but to ask, daughter. So you wish it, so it will be.

  Seven

  CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

  1294

  HAVING A LUMP the size of a horse roiling around in his stomach was no way to begin the morning. Or perhaps it was the pressure on his chest that bothered him more. Like the whole of the world pressed in on him, cloaking him in a vague sense of foreboding, as if his honor and indeed his entire future rested on the most urgent action he must take.

  If only he knew what that action might be.

  Malcolm pinched the skin between his brows, applying pressure to the bone beneath, seeking physical relief from the worries that plagued him. Likely it was no more than the fitful night he’d spent, tossing and turning, tormented by dreams no man should be forced to endure. Dreams of others suffering because he hadn’t taken action to save them. Dreams of failure.

  “Shadows and nothing more,” he growled, jerking his hand from his face and straightening his shoulders. “Meaningless.”

  If only his denial could lift the heavy mood he wore this day. With forced determination, he strode into the great hall, ignoring the voice in the back of his head urging him to make for his destrier and ride.

  “Good morning, my laird.” Patrick sat at the small table he favored away from the dais, his back to the wall near one of the great fireplaces. “Rest well, did you?”

  Malcolm snorted his response, noting the dark circles under his brother’s eyes. “No better than you, from the looks of it.”

  Patrick shrugged, lifting a hand to signal for a serving girl. “At least I had a good reason to have missed my sleep. Join me?”

  With a nod, Malcolm slid onto the bench next to his brother, also facing out to look over the room. Too many years as a warrior to feel comfort in exposing his back, even in his own castle. Perhaps especially in his own castle.

  “What ails you this morning, Colm? You’ve the look of a hunted animal about you.”

  Malcolm held his tongue as a young maid arrived at their table to deposit two large servings of porridge, waiting until she was well away from them.

  “Naught but bad dreams,” he muttered around a mouthful of the thick porridge. Hardly heroic for a grown man, a clan laird at that, to admit to being troubled by dreams as if he were but a wee bairn. “Though ‘hunted animal’ is a fair description of how I feel. It’s as if I’ve a need to run. A need to set off for the forest to find . . .”

  He let his words die in the air, filling his mouth with another bite to prevent himself from talking. He sounded like a man gone daft.

  “To find what?” Patrick stared at him, his own food untouched.

  This time it was his turn to shrug. “I canna say.” That was part of the nameless anxiety that gnawed at his gut. “I dreamed of a ring of standing stones, but I’ve no memory of where. Of a woman’s voice, but no her words. Of an urgent need to act, to be somewhere in particular, somewhere other than here, but I canna tell why or what it is I’m to do.”

  He opened his fingers, allowing the bread he’d used to scoop his porridge to fall to the table. The food had no taste this morning, dropping as it did onto the huge bubble of unease gurgling about in the pit of his stomach.

  “Do you think it possible—”

  Whatever Patrick might have thought to suggest was cut short by the arrival in the great hall of Elesyria.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Malcolm found himself fighting the urge to beat a hasty retreat as the woman stormed toward the spot where he sat, stopping at last in front of him. Hands on her hips, she repeated the question she’d hurled at him from across the room.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Beside him, Patrick lapsed into a comfortable slouch, his back tipped against the wall behind them. “It is his hall, Elf. Who has a better right to be here than he does?”

  Her eyes narrowed, the glitter of her irritation turned fully on Patrick. “I’m not questioning his rights, Northman. Only his good sense.”

 
The glare moved from his brother to him, and once again Malcolm fought down the urge to make good his escape.

  “Well? Was the Goddess herself not clear enough in her instructions?”

  Instructions from a Goddess? Malcolm shook his head. Elf, Faerie, whatever this woman chose to call herself, she was clearly brainsick.

  As if she could read his thoughts in his expression, she threw her hands into the air, casting her eyes upward. “You see? You see what I’m forced to deal with?” On an exaggerated huff of breath, she dropped onto the bench across from him, pinning him with a look.

  “Do you mean to tell me there’s nothing more important you feel you should be doing this fine morning than sitting here shoving that sticky mess into your mouth?” She wiggled her finger toward the food in front of him, her gaze never leaving his face. “Nowhere else you feel you need to be?”

  Malcolm schooled his expression, careful to avoid any hint of what he had shared with his brother only moments earlier. He’d rather roll in a muck heap than admit to this woman that he did indeed feel exactly as if he should be someplace else. It was without question none of her business. Not in the least. She’d be the last person walking the earth to whom he would—

  “Suppose for a moment that’s exactly how he feels after a night of tormented dreams. What would you make of that, my lady?”

  Unbelievably, from beside him, his brother gave voice to the very words he would have kept secret.

  “Dreams, you say? You really don’t understand, do you?” Elesyria sighed, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “Very well. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps communication from the Goddess was impeded by the same forces that prevented my touching you.”

  Again with the Goddess. This farce had gone on long enough.

  Malcolm shoved against the bench with the backs of his legs as he pushed himself to stand. “I’ve a long day ahead of me and no time for any more of yer nonsense. Either of you.”

  With as much dignity as he could muster, he nodded to each of them in turn and headed for the door.