A Faerie Fated Forever (3 page)

The good Lord could have at least given her a pleasing shape, like her petite friends. But no, she took her height from her father and towered over every other woman at a gathering. That should have been simple enough, but like her hair, her shape just couldn’t make up its mind and be consistent. She had the hideous bags on her chest that Granny called the devil’s playthings.

Mother’s scheme would work as well as dressing up the offal from the kitchen. On the other hand, scraps in a fancy dress would look better than she did. But her looks would not matter to Nial. He was a dreamer searching for a dream that would only be found within. Dreams arise from the spirit and carve their own reality. Nial would love the woman inside her because she was the dreamer who shared his dream.

She considered him her Prince Charming even before the fair. Afterwards, she was certain he was her prince. The good Prince loved the beauty Cinderella became, but it was to the girl garbed as a scald that he gave the slipper and his heart.

Surely, her Prince Charming could do no less.

CHAPTER THREE

“Damn, damn, double damn, bloody damn, hell!” Nial tossed his nearly empty glass of whiskey in the fireplace, causing a wild flare that suited his mood. The crash was satisfying, but not enough. He wanted to break something else.

“Apparently you don’t even say hello the way the rest of us do. The drama is nice. I can see how it would draw the lasses to soothe you. Tell me, is that the secret of your success with the ladies?” Calum entered chuckling. "I knew this explosion was imminent as soon as the elders made their big announcement at dinner. So they're throwing you a surprise party that starts tomorrow and the invitations have already been sent. I bet you were surprised, all right."

“Calum, what are the odds that she won’t show up?” He asked in the tone of one who already knew the answer.

“I’d say we have better odds of the King showing up to beg you to take his throne.”

“I hoped to avoid this until I was already married.”

Calum said, “Don’t know why. You didn’t seem to mind her presence at all that day at the fair.”

“I was in rut. It had been a long time since I’d been with a woman.”

“All of about four or five hours as I recall.”

Nial poured another drink. “She stares with her heart in her eyes. The other lasses are easier to deal with, since generally, it’s not my heart they want. Damn her father and the elders! For that matter, damn you too. You caused the mess at the fair. All of you want me to vow fidelity to a lass who is as plain as an old
brog
. No, most of my shoes look better than that hag in a bag. I’m supposed to remain faithful to that one and resist the claws of passion my faerie fated love will inspire?” He snorted as he strode over to the window. “I’m a man, not a God.”

He gazed moodily at the preparations outside. His black hair wildly askew and his navy eyes snapping with temper, he rubbed the dimpled chin that the lasses sighed over. “I admit that my looks and the family legend have taken me a long way. Maybe I am a bit spoiled when it comes to women.”

“A bit spoiled? How about a lot spoiled, excessively spoiled, abundantly spoiled? The prettiest lasses in the land plot to bring themselves to your attention and when that fails they sneak into your bed.”

“I make my squire check out any bedroom before I enter. God forbid, my mighty Maclee lust should force me to the altar,” he sighed. “I’m thirty years old and have never once come close to falling in love. That won’t change no matter how acquainted I become with Heather. Other than the fact that she could never spur me with claws of passion, falling in love with her would be convenient. The damned faerie curse is designed to make life a hell on earth one way or another. It’s never convenient.”

“Marriage to her will give our clan her dowry, which is huge, and you know full well that we are in dire need of the filthy lucre. Over and above that, it will give us rights to most of the land on Skye. All of the smaller landholders banded together would never be a threat to us. It would take a huge force from the mainland to be a threat, and than, there’s always the faerie flag.”

At the mention, the laird unconsciously patted his
brechan feiladh
where the pouch containing the flag rested in a hidden pocket. “The faerie flag, what a mixed blessing that is. My great grandmother many times removed might have blessed us more if she'd just let little Ian cry for a while. All babes cry, after all. But no, she brings the cloth and swaddles him in it the one time in his little life the bairn was allowed to cry. At least the bairn had a good memory, because when he could spit out a sentence he remembered to tell his Da that the cloth was a flag that could be used three times to summon aide from the fairies. They say the lad's first word was flag. Little Ian would point at the cloth and say the word. That's likely a good thing because it would have been fodder for the ragbag otherwise. It keeps the clan safe even if its laird isn’t safe or happy.”

“The flag has only been used, what, once so two uses remain?”

Nial shook his head no. “Twice. It has been used twice. Once when Clan Donald besieged Kilcuillin. We were short-handed because most of the warriors were off aiding the MacKenzies on the mainland. The defenses were outnumbered four to one. There was no choice, it was use the flag or die. That laird waved it three times and faerie magic caused the Donald forces to see many more warriors than had been there a minute ago. They thought that we were reinforced so they retreated and quit the battle.”

“I have heard about that. What was the other time?”

“The family kept that one quiet. It was during one of the periods when marriages for love had depleted the coffers and a strange scourge started killing the cattle. Winter was coming and the clan would have starved. That chieftain waived the flag from the tallest tower of the castle. The hosts of faerie appeared and touched each dead or dying cow with their swords. Those cattle rose to form a fat and healthy herd, more than sufficient to feed everyone for the winter.” Nial said solemnly, “No one was proud of having to use the flag that time. It wasn’t something to brag about. We don’t discuss it really.”

“So you have never used it? That last use would be a daily temptation.”

“I’ve been tempted. Once or twice, a wench has come close to pulling off one of those marital traps. Didn’t use it though. I don’t think that the faeries would be amused to have it used to thwart their fun. It might not even work.” Nial said, plopping himself down into his favorite chair before the fire, the one that let him stretch his feet to warm upon the hearth.

“I’ve got it!” Calum exclaimed, “You should wave it over the head of Heather the Hag. Or maybe just make her touch it so she would disappear in a puff of smoke. That’s supposed to happen, right?”

For a minute, if only in jest, Nial thought about it. But that was only because he would be willing to do just about anything to get out of the dreaded ordeal.

“You’ve got to admit, buddy. Marriage to her would solve a lot of the problems. When Carrick passes you would be laird over both clans. The MacIvers’ mineral deposits, their skilled weavers and artisans, a large herd of sheep and cattle – that would change the future of the clan forever and safeguarding the future is your first duty,” reminded Calum. "I know I'd feel that way if I were laird."

“Great green toad frogs, not you too! I bloody well know my duty. I’ve put the clan first every day of my life. But do I have to sacrifice my entire future for it? Must I volunteer to live in torment, besieged by desire for the lass that I can’t have? She's out there somewhere, the woman who will fire my passion and hold my heart.” He tightened his jaw. “The welfare of the clan is important but do I have to sacrifice my manhood for it? If so, it would be kinder for them to just chop the bloody thing off and be done with it.”

Yes, his love was out there. He didn’t know who she was, but he damned well knew who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Heather.

Calum tilted his head to the side, nodded and suggested, “Other women will be here and some of them, doubtless, will be new. Maybe you’ll meet your fate before you are forced to such an extreme sacrifice.”

At the thought, Maclee perked up visibly. It could happen. After all, she had to be somewhere. He was cheered enough to order a maid to fetch some
uisge-betha.
He even ordered the good stuff, the malt whiskey crafted carefully by the master brewer at Kilcuillin. The blends would do for the festival, but tonight, he needed reinforcement.

He downed a mug with his friend before another need came to mind.

“You know, before we are overrun by women targeting that manhood it might be wise for me to soothe it. It’s never a good thing to enter the fray already needy. I’ve learned that the hard way,” the laird said thoughtfully, with navy fire beginning to kindle in his gaze.

"By all means, lets pick a winner of tonight's bed the laird contest. Once we do that, I get my pick of the losers. A second rate lay for the second place guy," Calum said, adding quickly, "But I'm only joking, of course. How about Mairi? You’ve had her several times lately. She must be talented.”

“No. She won’t do. The last time we were together, she said something about tearing out Ila’s hair if she touched me again. That smacks of possession. I’m done with her.”

“Sorcha,” Nial said, suddenly inspired. “How about Sorcha? She’s
dubh
gray-eyed, petite and blessed in all the right places. I wouldn’t mind exploring those curves.”

“She's attractive enough, but I find her downright strange. I always thought she took her husband’s death entirely too well anyway. What brought her to mind?”

“The other day, I was hunting and met her in the forest. She said she was enjoying nature, but she was pretty far out for a stroll. Anyway, she let me know she would welcome a visit.” His navy eyes began to heat with remembered passion. “I’d have taken her up on her invitation right then, but the rest of the hunting party rode up a bit too quickly.”

“It’s strange that none of the women like her, Nial. The other day, I heard several of them saying that her character was as black as her hair.”

“That’s okay - it’s not her character I’m interested in,” he said with an exaggerated leer.

As both walked out of the study, Calum warned, “Watch your back. I still say I would tread carefully with that one.”

It was advice he should have heeded, for as the men spoke, Sorcha stood in the back of her cottage finishing a special potion. She'd gathered some of the ingredients from far-flung nooks and crannies of the forest. She would slip it in his drink when he came tonight, as her dark mentor assured her he would. The potent passion the brew would weave just before the interloper arrived would convince the laird that love would soon follow. If he believed that, he would never heed the elders’ urgings to wed the plain lass.

A love potion would guarantee success but those were much harder and required greater skill. She would make do with stirring his baser urges, but she'd make the potion double strength. Passion was a potent force in the life of the sensual laird. He just confined it to women he considered safe. So she'd transformed herself into one of those women. Luring Tomas to marry her had been child’s play. She only suffered his touch for a few weeks before she cast the spell to throw off his balance. He died from the fall and gave her the status that the arrogant laird deemed safe. The fool should have realized long ago that widows also come in the black variety.

She would succeed where the others failed. Once they wed, and she had Kilcuillin and the faerie flag, she could cease brewing the potion. Marriage would bind him and she would no longer have to suffer any man’s pawing. Once she got her hands on that faerie flag, the power that she desired above all else would be hers.

She finished just as the knock sounded at the door. She glanced down at the gossamer gown she wore and deemed it sufficient. She arranged herself before the fire, aware that in its light the sheer fabric would cast wicked red highlights, enhancing rather than obscuring the curve of her breasts.

“
Thig a stigh,”
come in, she called.

“
Beannachid de,”
hello, said the man who stood at the door, unaware that he was a fly, being lured to a carefully constructed web.

The sight of her bounty, enhanced by the gossamer kindled his gaze as soon as he entered. He couldn’t tear his attention from the breasts that peaked as his eyes caressed them.

“They won’t help you close the door.”

“What?” He reddened as he realized he had left the portal wide open.

“Hello, Laird Maclee.” She approached carrying the goblets she had filled moments earlier. “Would you join me in a glass of wine?”

He glanced at the two full goblets. Had he been expected? He had given her no warning that he would seek her out tonight. Normal caution would have had him turn down the brew, but she stood a step away clad only in a sparkling red shadow, looking hotter than the fire. Her attention fixed voraciously on his tenting kilt. Thrown off balance, he took the beverage and began to drink.

“Please, have a seat. Tell me, did you come in pursuit of livelier game before you are cornered by the little mouse?” She sat down slowly in a black chair across from him and casually threw a leg over each arm of the chair, spreading her furry black mons for his eager inspection.

“You know about the party, and Heather?” Her pointed comment surprised him and inspired another of those strange urges to defend the lass. As much to keep his mouth shut as anything, he gulped the rest of the brew.

She got up to refill his goblet. “Everyone but you knew. If the elders could, they would wrap you and,” she reached between his thighs to tweak his erection, “tie this up in a pretty little bow and feed it to the mouse.”

She released his member, trailing long nails down the length of it through the kilt, before she returned to her chair.

“Shall you let them?” She asked.

“Ahh, what?” He'd lost all grasp of the conversation. His eyes were glued to her breasts, so she got up and walked near him to top off his goblet again. He didn’t want more wine, but he wanted those breasts closer. Like a green lad he could only stare at her erect nipples. One long black lock brushed his forearm as she poured and he quivered slightly and pressed his thighs together.