A Faerie Fated Forever (7 page)

“Heather, Heather, please, stop. Stop. Let me explain! For God’s sake, don’t go,” he cried in a voice so frantic, so urgent, so damned lost that it nearly moved the elders to sympathy.

She didn’t even slow down, so he decided to run after her, but he ran into a wall of elders blocking his way. He tried to push past them, but the old men were imbued with
laidir,
their strength born of intent to protect the young woman from more pain. Nial staggered backwards. He gazed at the group with his heart in his eyes as everything that mattered, everything he'd sought his entire life, fled through the back door of the castle.

Heather, whose friendship soothed his soul and the goddess who tormented his nighttime fantasies, were one and the same. How could that be? He had worked so hard to resist being pushed that he never opened his eyes, or his heart, to see that the faerie fated love he searched the world for dwelled nearby, his for the taking.

So scattered were his wits that it never occurred to him that he stood stark naked before the group until a voice reminded him of his state. “Laird, ye’re kilt?”

He scrambled for the covering, thankful the blasted erection that tormented him to madness was gone. He glanced up to see Mac, the clan healer, looking closely at the young woman whose eyes shot hatred and fury at the elders. She scrambled to her feet, losing her balance in the process, spilling a small pouch from a hidden pocket in her gown.

The healer strode over to it as Nial stood fighting the unmanly tears that burned against his eyes in their eagerness to be free. The crack of a slap echoed nearby, jerking his eyes open.

“Whore! Demon witch! Ye have cost this clan the chance to secure the future for our children and all the people of this island,” Mac’s eyes were wide and his gaze sharp.

Nial advanced in disbelief. No man of the Highlands struck a woman and yet here was one of the gentlest men he knew slapping Sorcha for a second time.

Slap.

The second slap tossed her head back. Nial reached them and held Mac’s hand as it headed down a third time. He looked at Sorcha and saw the pure, undiluted, evil and malevolence shining from her eyes. How had he missed it? How had he ever wanted anything from this woman?

“Mac? What is the meaning of this?” No matter how evil she was, or how badly he wanted her gone, Nial couldn’t countenance violence against a woman.

Mac held up the packet. “This fell from her gown. Do ye ken what this is Laird Nial?”

In response, Nial shook his head as he said, “No. No I don’t.”

The old man shook it and a fine powder poured out. The strangely colored stuff reeked.

“What is this?” Nial was puzzled.

“Witchcraft and a middlin’ knowledge of herbs. This be a potion she brewed with her own hands and spent hours stirrin’ to get the solid to form, and then hours more chanting evil words and grindin’. It gets stirred in a man’s drink. A strong drink, like wine to disguise the smell. This here steals a man’s senses from his big head and lures ‘em all to his little ‘un. It makes a man’s need for what is between a woman’s legs stronger than his common sense.” Mac spewed the words, as though they themselves were offensive.

“What?” Nial shouted as images of his recent, uncharacteristic behavior flashed through his mind. Perhaps because his life and his destiny were too much controlled by faeries, he resisted such a fanciful explanation to even partially excuse his own vast stupidity.

“How do you know?” He demanded.

“Ye remember the old friend I just buried? He was of the Clan MacDonald. Do ye recall what happened to the late laird o’that Clan? ‘Twere years back but the elders there remember like it were yesterday. He became so enchanted w’ a widow that his mind were obscured to all else. He tossed his wife and young bairn out into a snowy night because Una demanded it be so,” he said, with eyes that still snapped at Sorcha.

“She were a black haired, silver eyed witch like this ‘un here. For the next few days after the wife and bairn were tossed out, the elders searched and spied until they saw Una putting powder into the laird’s wine. Tortured her ‘till she finally showed ‘em how it were made. Witchcraft and a middlin’ knowledge o’herbs, ye ken. They saved the powder and m’late friend’s brother showed it to me just two days ago. It was identical to this here.”

“When Una were discovered, the laird tossed her out quick enough and they searched everywhere for the wife and young son. Didn’t find ‘em till Spring, when their frozen bodies were discovered just outside the castle walls. The laird took his own life,” Mac said each word, staring into the blank silver void of Sorcha’s gaze.

Silence fell, but as the meaning of the tale penetrated, all eyes accused, and the void was replaced by a tempest. Screaming evilly, Sorcha rose, “Does anyone care what became of Una? She was my mother and after she was tossed out she had to become a whore, living her life at the mercy of men. I wasn’t going to have to do that. I was going to have power.”

Nial spoke to her directly for the only time since this all started, “How did you hope to gain power?”

She lifted one brow, and said, “The faerie flag.”

The Maclee temper, too long absent from the conversation, returned in a rush. Facing Sorcha, he reached into the hidden pocket of his kilt and drew out a small pouch. As he opened it and touched the flag directly for the first time since his own Da displayed it to him as a youth, complete silence reigned among the group.

He removed the folded flag from the pouch. “Tried to steal my future for want of this flag, did you, lass? Do you still want it?”

Sorcha stared at the folded cloth, her greed and ambition as plain as the evil intent in her eyes. She spoke a single word, “YES.”

“Then catch,” Nial said as he tossed the ancient cloth to her. Both arms extended, she jumped slightly to reach it. She sprang up on the balls of her feet to grasp the coveted object, the key to the power she wanted above all else. She never came down.

The instant her hands touched it, she vanished in a puff of black smoke, as acrid as her soul.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Laird Maclee need never worry about our daughter troubling him again,” Bonnie snapped as her husband eyed her warily.

“How dare he cavort with that strumpet whilst allegedly considering a match with Heather? Who does he think he is?” Bonnie turned to Carrick as though he should have the answers.

“Now, love.” Calming his wife had first priority. An irate wife was apt to find other topics for her ire, and since he was here and Nial was not, he would be directly in the line of fire. “It’s not the cavorting so much as the timing that I question.”

Bonnie whirled on him, pointing her finger and poking him in the chest with it, “Don’t you dare try to defend that hedonistic piece of filth. He is nothing to this family, nothing. I will have your word on that this instant.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not trying to defend him. You mistake my point,” his tone was deliberately even. “All I’m saying is that I suspect he has intense regret for his actions at this moment.”

“Intense?” Bonnie’s tone was shriller rather than calmer, and Carrick fidgeted in his seat at the warning post advising that the tranquility of his life was about to be greatly disturbed. “He better have intense regret, all right. Not that it will do any good. Let him have his strumpets. We are done with that family.”

“If you say so dear. ” Carrick said, covering his eyes with his hand in the guise of wiping his forehead as the words left his mouth. He could lie to his spouse with his mouth, but his bloody eyes would surely give him away. Naturally enough, after a single shocked glance at the naked laird dancing the reels o’bogie with the black-hearted bitch, the ladies didn't look again. Carrick didn't shock anymore and he did more than look. He considered. They caught Nial with his pants down, true enough. Though he might pretend otherwise, that didn’t really bother him because a man as strongly sexed as Maclee was getting it somewhere, courtship or not. No, he questioned the Maclee allowing lust to rule his judgment. That lapse gave Carrick real pause.

Real pause or not, he knew Nial would be back because he saw the man’s face when he looked at Heather out of that blasted bonnet. He’d never seen a man go down for the third time before, but he saw it today. Yes, Laird Maclee would be back. Would he allow it? Nial had much to answer for and Bonnie's ire aside, only time would tell.

The MacIver darted a quick glance at his daughter. She hadn't said a word since the ordeal began, unless her sobs counted. Heather sat completely still through the sobs that should have shaken her slender form, too stiff to bend at all.

“Pud? Are ye holdin’ up?”

“Da, I’ve heard people say that at such and such their world crumbled, but I thought that was just something attention-seeking social climbers said. Until tonight, I didn’t know what it meant. How can I hold up when I have nothing to hold onto?” Tears still trailed from her eyes, but the flood now slowed to a trickle.

“Sweet, ye’re Mother aside, I think you still have someone to hold onto,” he said, as he chucked his lass beneath her chin.

“What? Who?”

“Nial, love,” Carrick said bravely, aware he just bought himself a ticket to the couch.

“How can you say such a thing? ‘Tis more than obvious that he has no consideration for me at all.”

“I saw his face, love, and his eyes were open and unguarded for the first time since I’ve known him. He was devastated, destroyed. He was so beyond thought he was trying to run after you naked, till the elders quite properly stopped him.”

In a hard, bitter tone, neither parent had ever heard from her, Heather said, “Devastated? Hardly. Like as not it was all intentional. He wanted me to stop running after him. Well, guess what. He gets just what he wants – but then I hear he usually does. I will never have anything to do with him again.”

As they pulled into the MacIver keep, Carrick turned to help a stiff Bonnie down before he assisted his daughter. He chucked her on the chin again as he did so and smiled, “Never is a very long time lass.”

She ran up the stairs in tears and Bonnie walked into her parlor and slammed the door. Carrick winced and walked over to the bar. It seemed like a very good night to get drunk.

******

Not even a bottle would have helped Heather. She lay awake long into the night, pondering how Prince Charming became the frog. When exhaustion finally tossed her into a troubled sleep, she dreamed of herself as a beautiful and sought after debutante with men begging for her hand. The most desperate suitor was Nial. The most desperate and the most doomed.

As she awoke she considered her dream. She recalled it in absolute detail and it ran again in her mind, but this time her mother's exhortations provided the melody. Heather heard the maternal voice she generally ignored saying, over and over that she would never be a traditional beauty but she could be more. She sat straight up in bed as she recalled one particular conversation she'd paid attention to because she'd been struck by the love shining from Mother’s gaze as she said, “Traditional can be dull. Some very strong, very potent men prefer the exotic, particularly because that tends to remind them of bedchamber activities. Trust me baby, bedchamber activities are never very far from a man’s thoughts. If you can make him want you there, the rest is a piece of cake.”

Afterwards, Heather brushed off the conversation, as she did most of her mother’s attempts to alter her choices, her manner of dress, her etiquette and her lack of attention to any of it. In light of her dream, she pondered possibilities. For the first time she brushed aside Granny’s homilies and considered whether her mother might be right instead.

What if?

She could stay here and mildew and allow Nial’s act to destroy her life, or she could take a risk and try something new. When she used her knowledge of herbs to treat the sick, she often tried new things. A new quest for knowledge always produced abundant excitement, whether it be about a period of history, the works of a certain writer, or farming techniques. She believed that if you stopped learning you stopped growing. Why had she never applied that belief to her personal life?

What if?

Her eyes sparkled as she imagined the glory of change. The sparkle sharpened as she even pondered the possibility of a bit of revenge on Nial Maclee. She could return from some far off place beautiful (unlikely, but even passably attractive would be a grand improvement) and with a handsome and beloved man on her arm. The laird might look at her and acknowledge that he lost more than a friend.

Change brought risk, but for her, less of a risk than nothing changing. If she tried she might fail but if she failed to try then failure wasn’t a possibility, it was a guarantee. All living things grew and changed or they dwindled and died. She could do nothing and give Nial the power to destroy her world or she could seize that power in her hands and take control of her future. Viewed that way, she had no choice to make. She'd already given the toad frog as much of her life as she ever would.

Her decision made, she left her room, headed for the breakfast table. Though garbed like the girl who cried herself to sleep, a completely different lass walked into the dining room dressed from head to toe in black.

The unbroken black of Heather's garments notched tension in the room several degrees higher. Bonnie darted an anxious glance at her, “Heather, sweet, are ye all right? I left you alone with your thoughts last night because, well, I thought my company would only upset you and ye had been through more than enough already.”

She heard the anxiety and it saddened her that it would have been true, just last night. She walked around to her mother and leaned in to give her a hug voluntarily for the first time in her adult life. “I love you, Mother. I will understand if you have trouble believing that right now, but it’s true. I have had your love and support all my life but I have never listened to you. I have a lot to make up for in many ways.”

Bonnie's countenance changed with each of her daughter's words, brightening steadily as though she had dwelled in darkness all her days and saw sunshine for the first time.

The mother turned to the daughter, “Heather?” Her voice was still tremulous, still unsure.

Heather stepped back from the table. “I’ve come this morn garbed for a funeral. Today, we bury Granny. Well intentioned or not, I listened to her words when I should have heeded yours instead.” Then she ripped off the hideous black bonnet and tossed it on the floor as she said, “Rest in peace, Granny. I’m going to prove you wrong.” She spat on the bonnet before she stomped it into the floor.

Bonnie gave a glad cry and joined arms with her daughter. They did a Highland Reel and each step of the dance further destroyed the symbol of Granny’s domination over the life of young Heather. Lady MacIver wrapped her arms around her daughter and Heather returned her mother’s hug gladly and openly.

A world of hope flickered in Bonnie’s eyes as she tilted her daughter’s chin up to look deeply in the golden eyes that already sparkled with the promise of exotic beauty. “So we begin to break through the cocoon at last my little butterfly?”

Heather nodded her answer because the knot of emotion in her throat didn't allow speech.

Bonnie pumped her arms in the air in a victory gesture and called for the servants. “Pack the bags. Quickly. We’ve no time to waste.”

Carrick finally spoke up to ask, “Where are you going, sweet?”

“We shall go to London to stay with my sister.”

“Why are you going all the way to London? Why not just go to Edinburgh?”

“I know your feelings about the
Sassannach
. I don’t think you should be there the entire time anyway. You must attend to affairs here and come later to receive the numerous requests for our daughter’s hand. Edinburgh is too close. In London, she will be taken in by their
ton
because she is the daughter of a laird and the niece of an earl. In that city she will have a new start without old baggage.”

“We’re going to stay with Aunt V?” Asked Heather, excitedly. She had never been to England but Aunt V came for Granny’s funeral. They had written since then and she adored her Aunt’s sparkling refusal to let anything in life keep her down.

“Yes, my dear,” twinkled Bonnie joyously, “you shall conquer England.”

Too afraid that her daughter would change her mind, Bonnie would brook little delay. She sent a messenger off to England to alert her sister that they were en route, and she and Heather were on their way a scant day later.

******

The messenger arrived in London as John and Violet Crandle, the Earl and Countess of Standings, enjoyed a rare luncheon with their son on the patio of their Grosvenor Square mansion. Typically, Peter didn't rise from his rake's rounds until much later in the day. The butler handed Violet the message and she jumped up to dance a Highland Reel around the table, which John and Peter took in stride. Vi lived rather dramatically so John leaned to his grimacing son and, whispered, "The Scot has to emerge sometimes.”

She paused in her reel to take a sip of her tea and brandish the message in front of her like a sword. “See! Do you see? Isn't it glorious? My sister won the battle over her hellion of a mother-in-law at last, at long, long last.”

The earl ventured a question carefully. “Didn’t the old bat keel over several years back? I distinctly recall being dragged there for the funeral." He looked at Peter who'd missed the trip, the lucky duck. "'Twas an odd occasion. Heather and Carrick fought back tears while I caught Violet and Bonnie sharing a champagne toast in the butler’s pantry."

Vi huffed, “Well yes, John she did die a while back but what has that to do with anything?”

“So your Sister finally defeated her dead mother-in-law?”

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Violet beamed at her husband in reward for his understanding.

John remained silent and cast waiting glances at his son. An avowed rake in training, twenty-two year old Peter had little patience for anything other than learning to be good at the game. If it didn’t involve getting under a woman’s dress, or wouldn’t help him get under a woman’s dress, Peter didn’t consider it worthy of a great deal of his time.

“What the bloody hell are you babbling on about, Mum?” As if on cue, the young man demanded in exasperation. He appeared a little puzzled by his father’s look of approval at his disrespectful inquiry.

“Well it’s perfectly clear isn’t it, sweetheart?” Violet demanded, looking at her husband for confirmation. Her husband did something he spent a fair amount of time doing, he smiled and nodded.

“Heather. Bonnie finally won her daughter.” Vi still danced around the table, pausing every few steps to brandish the message.

“Heather,” Peter recalled, “the bluestocking who wears sacks and granny bonnets all the time?”

“Yes. She’s coming to stay with us. We’re going to launch her in society.” Violet’s eyes sparkled, as she began girding herself for the challenge.

Peter suffered a coughing fit as a swallow of tea went down the wrong way. “What do you mean by the use of the word “we” Mother? You’re the great manager. There should be no need for Father or me to be involved at all, should there? I'm not exactly known for my attention to dowdy females.”

“Well of course you will be involved, son. We will need your father’s name, influence and presence and we will need you to squire her about to her first few balls and such. Just until she begins attracting beaus. Then you might have to serve as chaperone a time or two of course.”