Authors: Hannah Howell
“Oh, aye, Adair.” She brushed her fingers over his cheek. “I do love ye so. I think I have since I was a wee child.”
He held her tightly, briefly overcome with emotion. “Ye willnae be sorry, lass.” He stepped back and held both her hands in his. “And I willnae keep ye from your garden. I ken how much a part of ye all this is.”
Rose looked around and felt a brief sadness. For every day of her life the garden had been the center of her world, and she would miss that in many ways. It would not be a complete loss, for she could visit the garden whenever she wished to, and renew her ties to this land that had nurtured generations of Keith women whenever she felt the need. She smiled at Adair.
“ ’Tis a part of me and I shall always need to come here, but only for a visit,” she said. “My time here is o’er. ’Tis my aunt’s turn now. She kenned this time was near and that is why she came,” she added in a soft voice, so that his men did not hear. Adair and others might be able to accept the magic of the garden, but her aunt’s
feelings
were another matter entirely.
“Ah, I see. Then come, lass. We will go to Duncairn and”—he winked at her—“talk on our future.”
A blush stinging her cheeks, Rose looked at her aunt. “I think I best stay here. We are nay wed yet, ye ken.”
“Go, lass,” said Mary, smiling widely. “The lad told near all the village that ye are his bride and that he loves ye. Go, and I will come to see you on the morrow to help ye plan the wedding. I think it should be a grand celebration.”
“Aye, verra grand,” agreed Adair, but when he tugged on Rose’s hand, she did not follow him. “Rosebud?”
Releasing his hand, Rose lifted her skirts a little to reveal two of her cats. “I am still shackled by Sweetling and Growler.”
Adair rolled his eyes and, ignoring the laughter of his men, coaxed the two cats out. The amusement of his men was increased when the other two cats stuck their heads out from beneath Mary’s skirts and cautiously looked around before emerging. That laughter was good, however. These men would never be able to see these animals as
familiars,
as evil lurking in disguise. He picked up Sweetling, who quickly draped himself over his shoulder. Rose picked up Growler and cradled him in her arms.
“Come, love, we will take these wretched, spoiled beasties back to Duncairn,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Rose went only a few steps before glancing behind her, stopping when she realized her other cats were not following. “Lady? Lazy?” She looked at her aunt when the cats did not move. “They willnae leave?”
“Not yet, lass.” Mary smiled at the two cats and then winked at Rose. “Nay until Lady has her litter and she and the proud fither are sure their bairns are weaned, strong, and hale. Then they will come to you, leaving the young to take their place here.”
“Lazy is the father?”
“ ’Tis clear he can bestir himself now and then,” murmured Adair. He kissed Rose’s cheek and whispered, “Come, my love. I am eager to show ye how verra much I love ye.”
“I suddenly find I am most eager to show
ye
how much I love
ye
as weel.”
Mary watched the two lovers walk away. Her eyes widened when Sweetling lifted his head from Adair’s broad shoulder and winked at her. She giggled and winked back, before stepping out of the garden and shutting the battered gate. Leaning her arms on the gate, she stared into the garden that would now be her responsibility.
“ ’Twas close this time, Mary,” said Iain as he moved to stand beside her. “Thought I might have to knock open a few heads.”
She smiled at the man she would soon marry. “Aye, but good came of it. Few will heed Joan Kerr’s poison now, and it made the laird open his eyes and see what was truly important.”
“And ye put on a fine show, Master Iain,” said Meg as she moved to stand next to Mary.
“Dinnae trouble yourself, Iain,” Mary said when the man attempted to stutter out some denial of trickery. “Our Meg is a canny one.” She looked at the girl. “I thought ye went home.”
“Nay. Anne was sad and hurt and my father will need to soothe her. Felt they should be alone for a while. Thought to visit Rose, but she and the laird will be busy saying all they were too timid or foolish to say before. So ye get me.”
“And ye are most welcome to stay for a while. In a wee while we can all go in and have some blackberry tarts.”
“So, ye now take o’er here,” Iain said, “holding it for Rose’s lass.”
“Oh, Rose will have a lass along with her eight sons, but that lass’s destiny lies elsewhere,” said Mary.
“But if ye have no daughters and Rose’s lass willnae take guardianship, is it to be an end to the Keith women of Rose Cottage?”
“Nay, one will appear. I feel it, though I cannae say from where or when.”
“Oh, Mistress Mary, look at all the dancing lights,” cried Meg. “Do ye think the garden is happy for our Rose?”
After exchanging a wide-eyed look with Iain, Mary stared at Meg. “Ye see dancing lights?”
“Aye,” replied Meg. “Cannae ye?”
“
I
can and
Rose
can.” Mary gently grasped Meg by the chin and turned her face up to hers. When she found herself staring into a distinctive pair of sea green eyes, she inwardly cursed her own stupidity for not seeing it sooner. “Did ye ken your mother, lass?”
“Nay; she died when I was born near thirteen years ago.”
“Always a sad thing, but I meant do ye ken her name?”
“Oh, aye. She was a Margaret, too. Margaret Keith. I always like to think I might be a cousin to Rose.”
Mary laughed, gave a grinning Iain an exuberant embrace, then grasped Meg by the shoulders. “Ye
are
her cousin. Your mother was my first cousin. I cannae believe I ne’er thought to look for her here when she disappeared so long ago.”
“Ye mean I am a Keith woman?”
“Aye, lass, ye are, and ye will be the next to take o’er guardianship of this garden. Ye already have an apple tree planted for ye, planted by Flora on the day ye were born, though she wasnae sure who she was planting it for at the time.”
“But, Rose—”
“Believe me, lass, ye willnae be stealing another’s place. ’Tis ye I have been looking for. Now, tell me what ye see in the garden, and dinnae fear to speak before Master Iain. He kens all.”
Meg stared into the garden, and slowly her eyes grew very wide. “The lights! They are more than lights!” She looked at Mary. “ ’Tis true, then, all true. The garden is fairy blessed. ’Tis really magic here.”
Wrapping an arm around Meg’s thin shoulders, Mary nodded. “Aye, it is, and I will soon tell ye the tale of how that came to be. I will also teach ye what is needed to keep the magic alive.”
“I think I ken what it is. ’Tis love, isnae it?”
“Aye, my canny brat, ’tis love, for love is a strange, sweet magic, too. Love is the strongest magic there is. Ye will do weel, lass. Verra weel indeed.”
Isbel
Chapter 1
Scottish Borders, Fall, 1362
He lay deep in the wood, blood seeping from his wounds and darkening the leaves he had collapsed upon. The late October frost was already creeping over the ground he was sprawled on, glistening, shimmering in the moonlight. His horse stood nervously by, its eyes white with fear, loyalty its only tether and that fraying rapidly as the night deepened. The man murmured in helplessness, and the threats that lurked in the night shadows crept even closer.
“Nay!” Isbel cried out, sitting up. Her rope-strung bed creaked its protest at her abrupt movement.
Isbel shivered and wiped the sweat from her face with the corner of her white linen sheet. She could still see the man clearly, easy prey for the unseen enemy that inched toward him. It was a bad night for a man to be helpless and alone in the dark wood. It was a bad night for anyone to be out. She wanted to ignore her dream, but the man called to her, silently but with a power she could not fight. A soft curse escaped her lips as she got up and began to tug on her clothes.
“And what are ye about, lassie?” snapped a gruff voice from the doorway.
As she yanked on her hose, struggling to do so without revealing too much of her legs, Isbel cast the little brown man in the doorway a cross look. A brownie, being barely three feet tall, was not much of a protector, but Pullhair had assumed that role with a vengeance. He stood firm in her bedchamber doorway, stiff and narrow-eyed. She was certain that even his shaggy brown beard was bristling. It was not going to be easy to get around him.
“I have had a dream,” Isbel replied.
“And it told ye to rise and get dressed, did it?”
“It told me that there is a mon who is in sore need of my help.”
“A mon, eh?” Pullhair further narrowed his eyes until they nearly disappeared beneath his bushy brown eyebrows. “So, now ye are creeping off into the night to meet a mon. Dreaming about a mon too,” he muttered and shook his head.
“The mon is wounded, alone, and in the woods.” She patted her cat, Slayer, and started toward the door.
For one long moment she and Pullhair stared at each other. Isbel knew that, if he pushed her to it, she would physically move the little man out of her way. That could be risky, for brownies were easily offended and even more easily angered. Not only could Pullhair stop coming to her tower house and working all the night long, making her lonely life not only tolerable but a great deal easier, but he could well do some great mischief before he stormed away. Isbel knew she would take that risk, however. The call to go to the man was too strong. Pullhair suddenly stepped aside, and as she passed through the door, Isbel wondered if he had seen in her eyes the determination she felt.
“Ye cannae go out there,” Pullhair snapped as he followed her to the great hall.
Isbel turned her back to the little man and rolled her eyes. He was fretting over her like some old woman. His agitation was affecting the spirits that roamed the halls of her tower house. She had left the family lands of Loch Fyne in the vain hope of escaping her gifts only to discover that they had grown stronger in her new home. In fact, she was sure the shadows of Loch Fyne were not half as populated as the ones around Bandal, her tower house. She often thought it a good thing that her husband had not lived long enough to realize the full extent of her gifts or just how magical his lands were.
She cursed softly as she had to wrestle her thick woolen cloak free of a ghostly hand. “Your fretting has stirred the ghosties, Pullhair,” she complained. “Now even they try to hinder me.” She tugged on her cloak and reached for her walking stick standing next to the heavy oak doors of the great hall.
“I ne’er thought I would side with those spirits, but I now wish them more power,” Pullhair grumbled, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. “You should think on your own safety. If that mortal mon was fool enough to get himself wounded and lost in the woods, then let him rot.”
“Such a hard heart ye do have. I fear I dinnae have that blessing.”
“What ye dinnae have is the wit to ken what ye should fear.”
“Oh, I fear. I am terrified to go out into the forest at night, but I must go. The dream has ended but its strength lingers. The mon calls to me, Pullhair. ’Tis as if he has a firm grip upon my arm. Nay, upon my heart and mind, upon the verra soul of me. I cannae ignore his need, his cries for help. I must go to him.”
“Do ye think he has gifts, as ye do?” Pullhair asked, revealing a tiny hint of interest.
“I dinnae ken. At this moment, he has power o’er me. I sense that he doesnae ken the full peril of his position. He only fears for his weel-being, for the dangers represented by untended wounds and the cold.”
“Then go. Fetch your lordling. But dinnae go blindly into the night. The Sluagh ride tonight.”
Isbel shivered. The Sluagh were the most formidable of the faerie folk. It was said that they were the unforgiven dead. They battled each other throughout the long, clear, frosty nights, staining the rocks below them with their blood. Tonight was clear and frosty. If the Sluagh found the man in the forest, they would take him up and command him to follow them, making him slay and maim people for them. If such enslavement was not torture enough, the Sluagh were said to be pitiless masters; Isbel wondered if that was the danger she sensed approaching the man. She had to try and save him from that living hell. Even the Unseelie Court, the malignant faeries, could not torture a man as unceasingly as the Host of the Unforgiven Dead.
“I dinnae go unprotected, my friend,” she assured the brownie. “I have my cross hammered out of iron hung about my neck. I have bread and salt in the pocket of my gown and a flask of holy water to sprinkle about if need be. I also carry my walking stick carved from the branch of a rowan tree and banded with iron. And just this morning I said prayers for protection beneath a holly tree.”
“Mayhap ye forsaw this.”
“Mayhap.” She started for the door, inwardly shoring up her flagging courage. “Howbeit, I believe I have enough gifts. I dinnae think I wish to add the one that curses me with the ability to ken what is to be.”
“It can be a help as weel as a curse.”
Isbel frowned when she realized that Pullhair was following her out into the bailey. “I dinnae need an escort to the gates. I believe I can find them on my own.”
“I have decided to go with you.”
Isbel stopped and stared at him. Even in the depths of her surprise she found herself musing that he was probably the only person, save for other denizens of the netherworld, that a tiny woman like her could tower over. The runt of the litter was what she had always been called. She occasionally wondered if the opportunity to be of a superior height was why she was so tolerant of so many of the creatures of the spirit world.
“Ye ken that ye dinnae wish to do that, Pullhair,” she said in a very gentle tone, hesitant to cause him any offense. “I ken that ye have no love of the faeries, the good and the bad, and there are a great many things lurking out in the dark that hold no great love for brownies either.”