Authors: Hannah Howell
“That is all true. Let us go. The sooner gone, the sooner back.” The little man took a deep breath and stepped out through the heavy, iron-studded oak gates. “Why are ye hesitating?” he demanded when Isbel did not immediately follow him.
“I just wait for the spirit of my late husband’s nursemaid to leave go of my cloak,” muttered Isbel, stumbling a little as she finally yanked free of the unseen hand trying to pull her back inside the tower house.
“Ye should try harder to send those ghosties on their way,” Pullhair complained as he and Isbel began to walk toward the surrounding forest. “That is why there are so many of those spirits gathered here. They seek your help.”
“And I give it when I can.”
“There are far too many of them gathered here.”
“I agree, but I cannae do much to solve that problem.”
“Ye have the gift to send them away, to show them the path they need to walk. Ye just have to use it.”
“And I do, whenever I can. Aye, the spirits do seem to gather here, but not all are ready to leave this earth. They seem to be drawn here, but many are uncertain. Mayhap the path they must take is clearest in this place. Howbeit, sometimes I can help them, sometimes they help themselves, sometimes they dinnae even ken why they are here, and sometimes they still dinnae wish to leave.”
“Why should they wish to stay here? Why wouldnae they wish to finish their journey?”
“Because they are afraid,” she replied quietly as she held her lantern forward a little to light their way through the thickly growing trees.
“Ye arenae afraid.”
“Oh, aye, I am, Pullhair. I am. All mortals are afraid of what lies beyond death. I see more than most mortals do, am privy to more of the secrets of this world, yet I, too, fear that final journey. And dinnae roll your eyes in that manner,” she said when she glanced at him and caught a glimpse of his expression. “Ye cannae judge we poor mortals on this fear for ’tis not one that ye must face. Ye arenae mortal. And e’en ye and yours fear something. Every creature upon God’s earth fears something, from the tiniest bug to the most fearsome of giants.”
Pullhair nimbly jumped over a fallen tree. “But ye shouldnae be plagued by such mortal weaknesses. Your blood—”
Isbel made a soft, sharp noise indicating her annoyance. “Please, dinnae plague me with talk of my bloodlines. I have heard it all. The laird and the faerie, the cursed brother, the secret room, and all the rest. I sometimes wonder if one reason I left Loch Fyne was that I grew weary of being told, over and over again, that I carried the look of the wondrous Lily.”
“Ye do,” Pullhair said quietly. “Ye have the same delicate beauty, the same wide, beautiful blue eyes, and hair the warm golden brown of sweet honey. Aye, Lily is who I see too.”
“Ye kenned who she was,” Isbel said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I have served the MacLachlan family for many years. Ye arenae the first I have blessed with my skills.”
“So? What did ye ken about her?”
“Nay much. I but saw her a few times. ’Twas many a year ago. ’Ware of those brambles, lassie.”
She inwardly cursed. The way Pullhair had answered her told her that he would reveal nothing. He clung to the secrecy all of his kind treasured. The faerie blood in her veins made no difference to him. There might come a time or two when he would let slip a tiny piece of information, but mostly, he would hold fast to his knowledge. After so long, the truth about her ancestors, Duncan and Lily, had faded into fanciful tales told to children in the nursery. It was annoying to know that Pullhair held the truth but would not share it.
A sudden chill rippled down Isbel’s spine and she tensed, trying to peer into the deep shadows surrounding them. She could sense malevolence all around her yet could not determine its source. Something in the shadows hated them yet was held at bay by all the protections she carried. She looked at Pullhair, saw how deeply he scowled into the darkness, and knew that he sensed it too.
“I can sense the evil but not whence it comes,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
“An Unseelie, an evil faerie,” Pullhair replied, waving Isbel on. “Many of the Unseelie Court dinnae like your kind, lass. They hold a special anger for mortals who hold faerie blood. They ne’er forgive a faerie for casting them and their ways aside to embrace a mortal. ’Tis a miracle, and the result of careful guarding by ones such as I, that has saved ye all from a curse.”
“Not all of us were saved. Duncan’s brother was cursed.”
“Aye, but that was mostly of his own choosing. He wanted to try and save the soul of his lover.”
“Ah, so that much of the tale is true.” She met his cross look with a sweet smile as she started to scramble up the side of a hill.
“Ye try to trick me into telling ye things ye shouldnae hear.”
“I but wish to ken the truth about my past.”
“ ’Tis not just your truth, and the others concerned prefer secrecy.” Panting a little as he followed her up the steep hill, he grumbled, “Ye didnae tell me that the fool was so many miles away.”
Isbel smiled faintly as she took the last few steps to the top of the hill. “ ’Tis nay miles. And the mon lies at the base of the hill, in amongst the trees.”
“Did ye dream a map too?”
She ignored his ill-temper, responding to his testy words as if they were a simple question. “I told you that he pulls me to him. He has guided me here.”
“He isnae dead yet?”
“Nay,” she replied as she started down the hill. “And ye may as weel cast aside the disapproval I can see in your every glance and hear in your voice. It willnae turn me back. I may not understand the how or the why of how I came to be here, but I am verra sure that I walk fate’s path now.”
“Are ye truly certain that ’tis fate guiding ye?”
“Such suspicion ye hold.” She smiled briefly. “I may twist the truth from time to time, but I have ne’er lied to you, Pullhair. Aye, ’tis fate. It would be kind if fate told me why I must see this mon, but she is a mischievous mistress. Howbeit, every drop of blood in my veins tells me that my destiny lies but four yards ahead inside that group of trees. Are ye prepared to meet it at my side?”
“Aye, I have naught else to do this night.”
Chapter 2
A faint crackle of leaves caused Sir Kenneth Davidson to tense. He dragged himself free of the heavy stupor caused by the cold and loss of blood. Groping along the ground at his side he finally found his sword, clutched the hilt tightly, and prayed that he had enough strength to strike at least one telling blow before he died. A little afraid of what he was about to see, he slowly opened his eyes and gaped.
It took Kenneth a full moment to accept what he saw. Crouched at his side was a beautiful young woman and a glowering little man. A strange thought wafted through his mind as he studied the little man from his shaggy brown hair to his tiny brown boots, but Kenneth quickly pushed it aside, blaming it on the pain and loss of blood. Brownies did not exist. They were but fanciful creatures who populated the tales nurses told children.
“Who are ye?” he demanded, startled by the weak unsteady sound of his own voice. “ ’Ware, I am armed.”
“Sir, ye may be a great warrior,” said Isbel, “but I doubt ye could cut a weel-stewed rabbit just now. I am Isbel MacLachlan Graeme, lady of Bandal, and this is my friend Pullhair.”
“Pullhair? ’Tis an odd name. Of what clan?”
“Mine. We have come to help you.” She cautiously edged closer to him and began to examine his wounds, wincing in sympathy when she tried to lift his jupon and he groaned in pain.
The pain caused by her gentle attempt to administer to his wounds caused Kenneth to sweat. He then began to shiver so fiercely that his teeth clattered together as the cold air dried the sweat on his body. Harsh words flooded his mouth, but before he could spit them out, the girl and the little brown man suddenly tensed and peered into the shadows that encircled them. He looked too, but could see nothing. Despite the lack of any visible threat, however, he felt the tight grip of fear.
Suddenly, the girl stood up, took a leather flask from inside her voluminous black cloak, and sprinkled water in a wide circle around them. Kenneth glanced at the little brown man and caught a look of horror and anger on his small unattractive face. When the girl sat back down, Pullhair glared at her.
“Is there something out there?” Kenneth asked her.
“There are many things lurking in the dark and the shadows, sir,” she replied. “’Tis best if ye dinnae see them. I have protected us for now.”
“Aye,” snapped Pullhair. “Ye and this fool are protected, but I am trapped. None of the evil out there can cross the line ye just dribbled o’er the ground, but I cannae either.”
“I will get you out,” Isbel assured him. “Now, sir, may I ken who ye are?”
“Sir Kenneth Davidson of Glenmal, just this side of Edinburgh,” Kenneth replied, struggling to speak clearly yet not use up too much of his waning strength. “My clan was on a border raid. I was chosen to guard the rear. A few Sassanachs were reluctant to allow us a share of their goods. A few miles back I fought them and won, but I suffered a few wounds.”
“And your people just left ye behind?”
“The rear guard is chosen to take that risk for the sake of the others.”
“For the sake of the loot they scramble home with, ye mean.”
“Could ye argue with the mon later?” said Pullhair. “Ye said ye came here to save him. ’Tis advisable that ye get about the business of doing so. All ye came here to rescue him from is still out there and the others draw ever nearer.”
“I need a litter,” Isbel muttered, reluctantly accepting the wisdom of Pullhair’s words.
“Ye will need to step outside the circle and I cannae help you this time.”
“I have ample protection.”
Isbel grabbed the length of rope curled around Sir Kenneth’s saddle horn, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the protective circle. She felt the malevolence all around them edge closer but clung to her faith in her protection against it. Nevertheless, she moved quickly as she gathered what was needed to make a littler for the wounded Sir Kenneth. She smiled to herself as she removed a small hatchet from her belt, for she did not even recall looping it onto the wide piece of leather around her waist. The fates were certainly using a strong hand in directing her. They not only had forced her to meet Sir Kenneth, but had done all possible to make sure that she could help him when she found him.
As she worked to lash together saplings and branches with Sir Kenneth’s rope, she thought about the man she had rushed into the night to save. He was pale, dirty, and helpless, but she found him breathtakingly handsome. He was tall, lean, and strong. Although it was a little hard to see clearly in the poor light of her small lantern, Isbel was sure that he was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Such particulars did not really matter, however. Isbel knew that she would like them no matter what their true color proved to be.
She grimaced as she tugged the completed litter back to Kenneth and Pullhair. She did not think she was going to be allowed to be too particular. The moment she had set eyes on Sir Kenneth, she had known why she had been drawn to his side, pushed and pulled by him and the fates that ruled them all. This man was her mate. It was a startling realization, but in her heart, mind, and soul, she knew it. Instinct told her that even her brief marriage to the ill-fated Patrick Graeme had been no more than one step in her journey to Kenneth Davidson. It had brought her to Bandal so that she could be close enough to aid him now. The next step was the hardest, and it depended almost solely upon her. Somehow she had to make Sir Kenneth understand and want to be her mate.
And the fates had decided to make that very difficult indeed, she mused as, with Pullhair’s help, she settled Kenneth on the litter and hitched it to his horse. Everyone told her that she was lovely so she supposed it must be true. However, she was not fulsome and men liked fulsome women. Her own husband had made a number of less than flattering remarks about the lack of meat on her delicate bones and had often tried to force her to eat more. She did not have the sort of purse a man of any standing looked for in a mate, having both a very modest wealth and equally modest land holdings. Sir Kenneth’s fine attire and equally fine mount told her that he was probably a few rungs above modest or came from a clan that was. Knights from a wealthy clan were expected to marry lasses who could add to that wealth and the power it brought.
She inwardly cursed as she did what little she could in the dark to temporarily bind Kenneth’s wounds and make him comfortable and warm. As if her looks and near poverty were not enough to turn him away, there were her many gifts. “Gifts,” she decided, was an odd word for her strange skills as they often felt more like curses to her, especially when someone turned from her in fear. Even though her husband had thought that he could use her skills for gain, he had still feared them, even hated them at times. She often thanked God that Patrick had not had the time to realize the full extent of her skills. Her own family had occasionally found her a little intimidating, despite their own history and acceptance of such things, and her gifts had strengthened since she had left them. She dreaded seeing Sir Kenneth’s reaction when he began to understand and see the truth of her many gifts. Fate could at least have picked a man who understood, perhaps even shared, her peculiarities, she thought crossly.
“I cannae cross that circle, lassie,” Pullhair said, his gruff voice interrupting her thoughts.
“Aye, ye can,” she replied as she grabbed the horse’s reins. “Get on top of Sir Kenneth, but please be careful of his wounds.”
“Ye want me to get on that fool?”
“Aye. His body will be your shield. ’Tis but a swift crossing and it should serve to protect you.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Weel,
I feel
it will work.”
“I dinnae suppose anyone means to ask me if I want this wee mon lying atop me,” Kenneth said, his deep voice little more than a raspy whisper.
“If it puts ye at ease, I swear that it will be for no more than a heartbeat. He doesnae weigh verra much and I will be in sore need of his help to tend to you when we reach Bandal.”