Keep reading for an excerpt from Diana Cosby’s
HIS ENCHANTMENT
The next stunning novel in her
MacGruder series
Available Fall 2013
Scotland, 1257
Beneath the October dawn, Lady Catarine McLaren scoured the hard sheer line of mountains, then the roll of field that fell away to the magnificent loch shrouded by a thin veil of fog. “I see naught.”
“Nor I.”
Catarine glanced at Atair, her senior fey warrior, his fierce scowl framed by coal-black hair secured with a leather strip behind his head. “We saw the English knights but moments ago. Their trail shouldna just disappear.”
“Indeed,” Atair replied, his deep voice rich with concern. He scanned where the remainder of the fey warriors moved through the knee-deep grass, searching for any indication of a small band of men having passed through. “The English knights are human. We trailed them with ease through the Otherworld. Yet, since we entered Scotland through the stone circle, with each step away from the magical portal, any sign of their presence is fading.”
“Aye, something is greatly amiss.” She frowned at the ring of stones enfolded within the blanket of fog, the daunting presence of the strategic pillars majestic against the bands of dawn severing the sapphire sky. “How did the Englishmen know to use the stone circle to travel to the Otherworld? More troubling, how were they able to pass through? Only the fey can travel from the Otherworld to Scotland.”
Atair rubbed his brow. “I am unsure.” He glanced toward her. “Mayhap our losing track of them is for the best.”
Anger slammed her. “The best? How can you say that when English knights attacked the royal palace and murdered my uncle?”
His mouth tightened. “This is the reason your father requested that you and your sisters separate and go into hiding. Until he confirms whether Prince Johan’s murderer is a threat to the entire royal family, King Leod wished to nae expose you or anyone within the royal family to danger.”
Catarine angled her jaw. “Nor would my father expect me to ignore that en route to safety, we caught a glimpse of the English knights fleeing the Otherworld.”
“’Twas nae King Lauchlan’s request that his daughter endanger her life,” Atair stated, his words tight.
“Nay, the decision to follow the English knights in hopes they will lead us to whoever planned the attack was mine.” Catarine understood Atair’s frustration, but being of age, and with a small contingent of the fey guard beneath her command, ’twas her choice to make.
He crossed his arms, frowned. “It does nae mean I have to like it.”
Far from intimidated by the gruffness in Atair’s voice—for he was a man who was more her friend than a guard—she arched a brow. “And when was the last time I made a decision you approved of?”
Atair dropped his arms at his side. “’Tis naught to joke of. I am worried about your safety.”
The last of her anger faded. “I know, but ’tis not as if I am either naïve or helpless. Once my sisters and I turned five summers, we were trained with a blade by the finest tutors.”
“Princess Ca—”
“Catarine,” she interrupted. “We have known each other since our youth.”
Somber eyes held hers. “And we are no longer children.”
“Nay, that we are not.” Tiredness weighed on her as she noted the roll of clouds moving in. “And I worry that my father will indeed confirm that the attack was but the first toward the royal family.”
“Why do you say that?”
With a sigh she brushed back several strands of hair from her braid, loosened from the last couple hours of hard travel. “Early this morning my uncle sent runners beseeching the royal family to meet him in the royal garden posthaste. In his missive he stated the reason ’twas of the greatest urgency that concerned us all. Before I or anyone else arrived, English knights attacked, and their arrows found their mark.”
“Prince Johan’s warrior instinct saved your family.” Atair’s frown deepened to a hard edge. “Still, human arrows killing your uncle, one of the fey, should be impossible.”
“It should be,” Catarine agreed, “leaving one terrifying explanation—the arrows were spell-tipped.”
“’Tis the only explanation,” Atair agreed with disgust. “But who would cast a spell upon a human’s weapon to enable them to kill the fey?”
Fear rippled through her. “Someone who dared allow humans into our realm for such a nefarious deed. It could be any of the fey nobility who have challenged the royal family’s claim to the throne over the years. Or,” she said, her mind mulling the terrifying possibilities, “if ’twas due to the lust for power, the traitor could be unknown. And the reason we must trail the Englishmen.”
Atair grimaced. “Do you know if your father found any written notes stating Prince Johan’s concerns?”
The gruesome image of her stumbling upon her uncle sprawled on the floor in the royal garden, the stench of blood, and the arrows embedded in his chest clawed through her mind.
“Catarine?”
She swallowed hard. “When my father arrived, he searched his brother’s chamber in hopes of finding a clue. Whatever the threat to our family, my uncle refused to share it except to our face.”
“Thank the heavens a royal guard caught sight of the men as they escaped and were able to give a description.”
“Aye. ’Twas easy to recognize the English knights. I still canna believe humans were brought into the Otherworld for such evil intent.” Catarine rubbed her finger over the hilt of her dagger as she glanced to where the fey warriors continued their search, then sighed. “There is little use in us continuing. The trail of the English knights is lost. We must return to the stone circle and try to track them from there again. There must be some sign of their passing that we missed.”
Embraced by the mist of dawn, Atair gave a soft whistle.
The fey warriors looked over, then hurried toward them through the thin veil of fog.
Once everyone had returned, Catarine nodded to each man. “We are—”
A man’s shout echoed in the distance.
“Get down!” Atair warned.
Catarine dropped to the ground and flattened herself alongside the fey warriors. The rich scent of earth mixed with the grass as a steady breeze rustled through the thick blades, shielding them from view.
“Look near the water’s edge,” Sionn, one of the fey warriors she felt close to, said in a low voice.
Catarine peered between the mist-laden grass. In the distance, through the smear of thinning fog, she made out a fairly large group of warriors.
“I count over twenty men,” Sionn whispered.
“Look behind them,” Atair whispered in return, concern edging his voice. “Several more men are leading two people from the water’s edge. From their garb, they are nobility.”
Nobility? Catarine frowned as she noted a man and a woman walking through the slide of water with the group, the luxuriousness of their garb indeed confirming Atair’s observation of their royalty.
“Halt!” Another shout, distinctly male, echoed from a distance behind them.
Stunned, Catarine met her senior fey warrior’s worried gaze. “We are caught between the two groups!”
“The tall grass and brush should keep us hidden,” Atair replied.
She prayed so.
Heavy footsteps pounded nearby.
As the men ran closer, heart pounding, she withdrew her dagger.
“Halt in the name of King Alexander III!” a deep male voice ordered from the group closing in on the knights with royalty.
Stunned, she glanced toward the knights hurrying away with the royal pair. King Alexander III—Scotland’s king?
Orders rang out from the knights near the water. Several men broke from their ranks and rushed up the hill toward the attackers.
Atair glanced over. “If they come closer, we will have to fight.”
Her body taut, Catarine nodded.
Several feet away, blades scraped.
A cry of pain echoed.
Outlined by the fog, an armed man staggered toward them, crumpled to the earth but paces away.
“The battle ’tis nae yours, Lord Grey,” a Scot warned a towering man with rust hair and a beard who struggled to his feet. “Go back.”
“Like bloody hell,” the rust haired man boomed. “’Tis my king you are abducting!” Arms trembling, Lord Grey raised his blade, swung.
The men clashed. Amidst the fray, grunts and curses filled the air, the slide of steel as common as the fall of men and the gasps of their last breaths.
Hands fisted, Catarine watched horrified as the battle for life and death played out before her. Without warning, an urge swept over her to jump into the fray, to stand alongside Lord Grey and protect Scotland’s king. She sheathed her dagger, clasped the hilt of her sword, and started to rise.
With a fierce scowl, Atair caught her wrist. “What are you doing?”
Heat warming her cheeks, she flattened herself against the ground. “I . . .” She wasna sure, which made nae a bit of sense. She was fey, nae human, nor held any ties to King Alexander. Scotland’s king and his people were nae her concern. Still, the draw to aid the man fighting to save his king remained. Uneasy, she studied the mix of men engaged in battle, her gaze returning to one—the rust-haired Scot.
Like a defiant god, Lord Grey forged ahead, his each slash at the man before him making Catarine hold a nervous breath. Why? ’Twas not as if she knew him. Never had she seen the man in her life.
Muscles bulged as Lord Grey lifted his blade, swung.
The Scottish knight before him screamed out. Fell.
Another Scot charged the rust-haired Scot from behind.
Catarine covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Heart pounding, she watched in horror as the man swung, then his blade came up stained with a slash of red.
On a cry of pain, Lord Grey crumpled to the ground.
She must help him!
Atair’s hand on her wrist tightened, keeping her there. He gave a hard shake of his head.
What was she thinking? She couldna expose their presence. But for an unexplainable reason, an urgency filled her to reach Lord Grey.
Long moments passed. Slowly, the cacophony of blades stilled to an errant shudder.
Silence.
Their movements weighed by fatigue, several warriors from the knights who’d challenged the attackers backed away from the litter of bodies.
“What of the dead?” a man with a deep Scottish burr several paces away asked.
“Leave them,” a gruff voice farther away ordered. “We must reach Stirling Castle.”
“And what if the king doesna comply with our lord’s request?” the Scot with the deep burr asked.
“Then he will die,” the gruff voice replied. “Let us go.” He waved the men forward.
The slide of metal against leather hissed as knights shoved swords into their sheaths and started toward the west.
Sunlight pierced the wisps of fog as Catarine watched them catch up with the distant group leading the royal couple away. “King Alexander and his queen are in danger!”
Atair released her wrist and eyed her perplexed. “Their fate is nae our concern. We must find the trail of the English knights who entered the Otherworld and give chase.”
She blinked her eyes. So caught up in the battle, of her concern for Lord Grey, for a moment she’d forgotten her purpose. Chagrined, she focused on the stone circle in the distance, then back toward the departing men.
“If the English knights we are trailing passed this way,” Sionn said with a grimace, “with the battle, I fear any trace is destroyed.”
A sinking feeling in her gut, Catarine nodded. “We will soon see.” She pushed herself into a kneeling position, kept her body below the tips of the tall grass.
“The Scots should be far enough away,” Atair said as he stood in a crouched position, “but I want to take nae chance of being seen.” He faced the other warriors. “Move toward the stone circle, but keep low.” He started back.
Sionn moved beside Catarine. “I will keep beside you.”
His tenderness touched her. Her friend worried about her. She gave him a warm smile. “I believe I am able to defend myself.”
“Aye,” Sionn replied, “but I am staying still the same.”
“Let us go then.” Catarine started moving through the thick, dew-laden grass.
A man’s pain-filled moan echoed from several paces away.
She whirled toward the sound.
Between the blades of sturdy grass, shafts of fragile sunlight illuminated a lone figure staggering to his feet.
Lord Grey!
Waves of emotion swamped her, that of pain, of anger so deep ’twas as if it lived. Catarine dug her fingers deep into her palms as she fought to steady herself against the onslaught.
Sionn halted beside her. “What is wrong?”
“I . . .” How did one explain these raw emotions? In disbelief, Catarine stared at the lone figure, then understood. Somehow, incredibly, she was sensing what this Scot was feeling. She stepped toward him.
“Catarine,” Sionn demanded, “what are you doing?”
“I must help him.”
At her voice, the rust-haired Scot’s head snapped toward her.
The impact of his green eyes held hers, pinned her as if a sword to flesh. Sensation roared through her, a feeling so deep, so complete, it entwined her.
“Who are you?” Lord Grey’s deep burr demanded.
Sword raised, Atair ran back and moved beside her as the other fey warriors formed a protective circle. “Nay answer.”
Sensation tearing through her, Catarine shook her head. “He is nae a threat.”
“You know him naught,” Sionn said, his voice rich with suspicion.
Atair nodded to the daunting man. “Who are you?”
The Scot straightened. “Trálin MacGruder, Earl of Grey, guard to King Alexander,” he stated, his each breath rattling with agony. His body began to waver. “Who be”—on a muttered curse, he collapsed.