As Good as Gold (3 page)

Bel put his teacup down. Any excuse he offered to leave would be seen for the sham it was. “I’m not going to seek a wife so some lass doesn’t have to compete on the marriage market.”

The fire went out of his mother’s eyes, to be replaced by something softer, something he remembered seeing there often as a child, despite their poverty. He took it for granted then, and didn’t want to admit he knew what it was now. “No,” she said, her voice toned down. “I would not have you marry just to marry. I would have you marry because you are in love.”

“And what if I am not in love?”

“It is because you are not looking. It may be that you have to seek it, or it may be that you simply have to open your eyes, like your father did. Maybe you will be so lucky as to have it come find you.”

He rose, muttering shallow excuses they both knew were false. She caught him by the sleeve as he slipped by.

“But if you are, at least be wise enough to realize what it is at the time.”

She opened her mouth as if to say more, but nothing came out. Her eyes studied her son in a way that made Bel uncomfortable.

“What?” he said in an effort to dispel the awkwardness. She held onto his sleeve so he couldn’t pull away.

He could see the thoughts tumble through her head. “I would give you something to help you on your way,” she said at last.

“What?”

She beckoned him closer as if to whisper in his ear, but it was not a secret she bestowed. Gently she took his face in her hands and brought his face down low. She murmured something he couldn’t make out, then she pressed her lips to his forehead.

Bel felt a warmth spread through him. “What was that?”

“A mother’s best wishes for her son.” She released him. “I’m sorry.”

****

His mother’s conversation weighed heavy on his heart. As the shadows lengthened through the streets, Bel’s thoughts brooded in his head.

He heard the sound of a wagon approaching, its wheels rattling on the cobblestones. He looked up and stepped out of its way. By sheer luck he saw a figure that looked remarkably like Daywen slip into an alleyway. As he watched her retreating back, he knew for sure that she was the one who had stolen his gold. He followed her, and watched as she conducted a transaction at the back door of a shop.

She seemed a comely lass, with a fine figure, her waist cinched tight by her bodice, the thin linen of her blouse not completely hiding the swell of her breasts and the hem of her skirt almost high enough to expose her ankles.

As she turned to leave, he blocked her escape. “Well now,” he said, his voice low. “I seem to have found my thief.” He closed in on her, she turned to flee and he grabbed her hand, causing her to snap back to fall into his arms.

Bel clamped his hand over her mouth and pressed her back against the wall. He doubted the sounds of the town would be sufficient to mask her screams.

The lass kicked and struggled against his grip. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said into her ear. “But we need to talk.”

Something hard pressed into his chest. He kept his one hand against her mouth, and leaned back just enough to slide a hand between them and into her bodice. She continued to struggle and beat against his arms with her hands. “What have we here?” he said, drawing out a dark velvet pouch. “It wouldn’t happen to be my...”

No, it wasn’t his gold. While the weight could have been right, it didn’t shift and clink as money would have.

The moment he lifted that pouch up between them, the lass went still. Even in the fading light of evening, he could see how pale she’d become. She muttered something against his hand.

He relented, lifting his hand enough for her to speak. “Please,” she said. “I need that.”

Bel stepped back, freeing her. She tried to snatch the pouch away.

But Bel was faster. He lifted it out of her reach. His fingers plucked at the drawstring opening.

He drew a figure from the pouch, and when he held it up, it began to shimmer in reds and blues and other colors, bright and pretty as spring.

“Oh, glory,” she gasped.

He looked from the glowing figure to her. A warm tingle blossomed on his forehead. It grew and spread over his face.

Oh, surely not! he thought.

Something else tickled in the back of his mind. He pushed it away before it could overwhelm his wit. The figure slipped from his fingers.

Feminine hands caught it. But he had seen enough. That was unmistakably the Enchanted Faerie.

The alleyway grew dark once more as she slipped the faerie back into the pouch she snatched from his fingers.

It all made sense now. He gripped her arm so she couldn’t flee. “You are the thief who stole my hundred gold. You then took the money to the Gypsy woman, who gave you that.” He flicked the bag with his finger. The lass clutched it to her. “Then, armed with the magic of the faerie, you sought out your sweetheart.”

That got her attention. Her gaze snapped up and she looked at him, bewildered.

“Then,” he said, “with a courage you thought was from the faerie, you approached your sweetheart, proposed marriage to him, and he turned you down.”

Her mouth gaped.

“And that is how I know your name is Daywen Athalia.”

A heat so strong Bel could feel it suffused her cheeks. “What?” she squeaked.

“And now you’ve put me in a quandary: what do I do with you?”

Daywen looked to the opening of the alleyway. If it wasn’t for the grip on her arm, Bel was sure she would have bolted. He didn’t want that. He really didn’t want that, but wasn’t sure why.

“You have put me in an awkward spot between several of my relations,” he explained. “When my mother learned you had stolen a hundred gold from me, she guessed rightly that you were seeking the faerie. Had she not told me, I would demand my hundred back from you, if not in coin, at least in trade--”

As he spoke these words, Daywen stiffened and she drew herself upright. “I am not that sort of woman!” She pulled against his grip like a panicked horse.

Bel pushed her up against the wall once more, this time her hands pressed between his chest and hers. “And if it had occurred to me--which I will not confess if it did or not--and I chose to sample your favors, that would not bode well between me and another relation of mine: my cousin. After all, isn’t he your sweetheart?”

Confusion wrinkled her brow. “Who’s your cousin?”

He didn’t expect that. Surely the lass knew who she loved. “Uhh, Lachlan...?”

“Oh,” she muttered, then realization dawned in her widening eyes. “Oh! Oh no...” She sank under his grip.

“So no, I won’t be taking a hunner’worth from you that way. I can’t even steal a kiss from you.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. She was pretty and wasn’t going anywhere for the moment. Is that why he wanted to kiss her? That itch in the back of his head nagged him. All he had to do was bend down and taste her lips...

He hastily changed the subject. “And my dear sainted mother would tan my hide if she heard I tried to claim back my gold. But I will tell you what you are going to do--”

Bel felt a cold prickle on his neck.

“Wo sind meine Goldmünzen?”

Bel turned around slowly. As he stepped away from Daywen, she peeked over his shoulder. “Oh,” she gasped. “What’s that?”

Bel faced off the small creature before him. It was short and squat like a goblin, and dressed in filthy clothing. Its face was pinched, its eyes, when not squinting, were large and it held out a grubby hand. “Ich wünsche meine Goldmünzen.”

“It’s called a gnome, a fey creature from Batavia. And it wants its gold back.” To the gnome, he said, “Ich habe nicht Ihre Goldmünzen.”

“Wo sind sie?”

Bel glanced around. The only way out of the alley was the way they came in, and the gnome blocked that escape route. “Do you have any cold iron on you?” he asked her.

She gave herself a quick pat-down then shook her head.

Taking Daywen’s hand, Bel fled up the alley.

“Where,” she panted, “are we going?”

“Safest place I can think. We’re headed to the smithy.”

“Oh, no!” wailed Daywen.

****

As Belenus MacEuros--he’d introduced himself during their escape--dragged Daywen along, she protested loudly. “I can’t see Lachlan, Belenus!”

“Only my mother calls me Belenus. Everyone else calls me Bel.”

“I’ll be calling you much worse if you don’t let go!”

His answer? He picked her up, threw her across his shoulder and continued his journey. They passed behind shops and homes, soon leaving the town behind. Lachlan’s smithy stood on the edge of Beltane, where horses could graze in wide, green paddocks.

Daywen pummeled her fists against his back. “This is not dignified!”

“It is far more dignified than if that gnome catches you. And what would you do if he does?”

“But I don’t have his gold.”

“That’s what I told him. Until I can lead him to whoever has his gold, he’s going to assume I’ve got it. Anyhow, the smithy’s the safest place for us; it is full of cold iron.

She felt his hands, previously wrapped around her legs, creep upwards. It came to rest on her bottom. Before she could protest, she felt him take a deep breath and stop, using the misplaced momentum to unhitch her from his shoulder.

Daywen found herself abruptly on her feet once more.

“Sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He seemed out of breath. Then he grasped her hand and pulled her along towards the smithy.

She firmly pushed aside the dread of meeting Lachlan again. What if he’d changed his mind about her proposal?

And what about this foreign gnome? Were they unseelie creatures, full of vengeance, or did he simply want his gold back?

When they reached the smithy she pulled back on Bel’s hand. “I-- I can’t go in there.”

Bel picked her up and carried her through the gate and into the warmth of the smithy. The ring of a hammer on anvil masked their entrance.

“Ho, Lachlan!” he called out. “I brought your sweetheart!”

Daywen’s face burned with shame. She struggled against Bel’s grasp but couldn’t escape. He dropped her to his feet, but kept a firm arm about her waist.

“Oh, did you now?” Lachlan never broke the rhythm of his hammering.

Daywen put her hands over her face.

“She looks more like your sweetheart.” Lachlan said to Bel.

Bel still had his arm about her, his other hand paused to stroke her hair. Then he snatched his hand back and released her by pushing her away.

“It’s not my fault. She’s bewitched me.

“First of all, we’ve got to get rid of that cursed faerie. She’s driving me mad.” He advanced on Daywen and she backed up until her back hit the side of the smithy. With quick fingers, he dipped into her bodice and brought up the velvet bag.

“Oh!” Daywen exclaimed.

“You got an iron box?” Bel asked Lachlan.

Lachlan gave him a look as if he were an utter fool. “Got tha’ wee one over there.” It was large enough that Daywen could have squeezed herself inside.

While Lachlan quenched his iron in a barrel of water, Bel dropped the velvet bag in the box and let the heavy lid close with a clang.

“You can’t do that!” Daywen protested. She attempted to pry it open to no avail. Failing that, she grabbed Bel by the front of his shirt and jabbed a finger towards the box. “You get that out.”

Bel removed her hand. “No.”

She appealed to a man of more sense. “Lachlan. I need that back.”

Lachlan laid down his iron. “You seem to be getting into a wee spot o’ trouble today, lassie. What’s so important about tha’ bag?”

“It’s mine and I want it back.”

He looked at Daywen, then at Bel. “What’s in tha’ bag, Bel?”

Bel had been scrubbing at his forehead. “Gypsy magic.” He looked at his hand, then scrubbed at his forehead once more.

Lachlan thought upon it, and nodded his head. “I see.” He shook his hammer at Daywen. “I dinnae ken where you get your ideas, lassie, but I know what that old gypsy woman gets up to. If you ha’ thought to set your cap for me, it’s not gonna work. I’m a blacksmith.”

Daywen’s heart ached. “I know that. I’m sorry about... earlier today.” She slumped down against the wall of the smithy. “She told me to ask the first man I met to marry me.” She wanted to cry. “I’ve been made a fool.”

Instead of resuming his work, Lachlan put down his hammer. “Well, to my reckoning, I dinna think ya listened too closely. After all, you’ve ken me for years.” A bright smile creased through the darkness of his face. “On that note, ye have only met my cousin Bel today.”

Bel ceased his rubbing and dropped his hand. “What?”

Daywen looked up. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You haven’t been thinking much, have ya, lassie?” Lachlan studied his cousin. To Bel, he said, “What’s wrong wi’ you?”

He pointed a finger at the iron box. “That damned faerie dropped a curse on me.”

Lachlan came over. He peered at Bel’s forehead and prodded it with a finger.

“That not be gypsy magic. That be something worse.”

Bel paled. “What’s worse than that?”

“That be a mother’s blessing.” Lachlan backed off, hands held well away. “I wouldn’t be interfering wi’ that. ‘Tween it and tha’ wee faerie, you have no chance, Bel me lad. Might as well give in now.”

Bel shook his head. “I... I can’t.” His gaze moved over to the iron box. His eyes narrowed in determination.

“Oh, no,” she muttered. “No, no, no!” Daywen scooted past the two men and sat firmly upon the box. “That is mine!”

Bel strode over to Daywen. “I don’t care. It’s going back to the gypsy and I’m getting my gold back.” He put his hands on her hips to lift her off the box. She grabbed his arms and kicked out at his legs.

A perplexed look wrinkled his forehead. One of his arms snaked about her waist while the other moved to the back of her head. Before Daywen could draw another breath for a protest, he pulled her close and kissed her.

Her heart thumped. When he released her, she found all her words of protest had fled.

He had not lost his frown. He leaned his forehead against hers. “I can’t live like this. I don’t care what you say. That faerie must go back.”

Lachlan muttered something. To Daywen, it almost sounded like, “Ye be a greater fool than I thought.”