Authors: Hannah Howell
Kenneth stared at the little man when he sprawled his small, brown body on his chest. Pullhair flashed him a broad grin as Isbel started to urge the nervous horse forward. The little man had a set of very white, very pointed teeth, Kenneth mused. Although he continued to deny it, vehemently, everything about the tiny fellow bespoke a brownie, one of those creatures of whispered tales and dreams.
“Why couldnae ye just walk out of that circle?” Kenneth asked the man, a little nervous about the answer he might receive.
“Because of the holy water she sprinkled about, ye great fool,” Pullhair replied, then he chuckled. “Ye ken what I am.”
“I ken what ye remind me of and that ye are a little mon who, mayhap, carries too many superstitions in his head.”
The moment they were outside of the circle, Pullhair scrambled off Kenneth but paused at the man’s side to glare at him. “Just because ye dinnae choose to believe doesnae make them superstitions. I also ken the thought stuck in your head that ye cannae shake free. I am just what the wee voice in your mind keeps insisting I am. And since I am one of those wee creatures your wet nurse told ye tales of, ye might better spend your time asking yourself why ye can see me. Most of the rest of your kind cannae.” He laughed at Kenneth’s sour look and moved up to walk at Isbel’s side.
“Are ye tormenting that poor mon, Pullhair?” Isbel asked, after a brief look back at Kenneth revealed the man’s expression of mild annoyance.
“Me? I dinnae torment people,” Pullhair protested, his air of insult too overdone.
“Aye, ye do and we both ken it weel. Ye often tormented Patrick.”
“He deserved all ill that befell him.”
Isbel inwardly grimaced at Pullhair’s sharp response. The brownie had always detested Patrick and the feeling had been mutual. Patrick’s biggest complaint about the little man was that he had never been able to catch him or really see him. Pullhair had plagued Patrick with small annoyances and curses, restrained in his actions against the man only because she was married to him. At times she wished she had paid closer heed to the way Pullhair, her spirits, and a myriad of denizens of the netherworld had reacted to Patrick. None of them had liked the man. If she had taken a minute to look beyond his handsome face and the sweet charm he had shown her before they were married, she might well have hesitated then ended the betrothal. Instead she had married the man and, within days, realized that she had made a serious error in judgment. The fine courtier she had been wooed by had quickly disappeared, leaving in its place an insulting, greedy, and often cruel man.
She finally gave in to temptation and softly asked Pullhair, “What do ye think of this mon?”
“That he is a fool.”
“Why do ye call him a fool?”
“What else might one call a mon who nearly gets himself killed for the sake of a pack of thieves running back to their nest with a few skinny cattle?”
“Weel, ’tis true that I dinnae ken why men must steal from each other and certainly not why they must constantly fight and kill each other. Howbeit, if that makes him a fool, then most every land with men on it is full to overflowing with fools.”
“Aye, it is.” Pullhair bit back a smile when she cast him a disgusted look. “The mon can see me.”
Isbel took a moment to fully understand the import of his words. When she did, she was so startled she nearly tripped. Few people saw brownies. Even fewer talked to them. Kenneth had done both.
“But he doesnae believe in such things, does he?”
“He doesnae want to, but the belief is there. He fights it as hard as he fought the Sassanachs.”
Isbel felt her heart skip with hope. “Do ye think he has gifts akin to mine?”
“He has a sympathy, lassie. He feels, deep down he believes, and he isnae as afraid as he would like to be. I think he is also bonded with you in heart, soul, and mind so tightly that he precariously shares your gift.”
“Oh, dear. That could make Bandal a most upsetting place for him. I had hoped for time with him, time for him to soften toward me ere he confronts the full truth of Bandal and me.”
“Ye may still have it. This could be the only night that he has the skill to see me and mine. He has been weakened by his wounds and the veil that usually covers a mortal’s eyes could have slipped a wee bit.”
“And so it may fade as he grows stronger. I pray it does, that this sight he has is but a short-lived gift. Fate has chosen him for me, Pullhair. I was pulled here because that mon is my chosen mate. ’Twill be most difficult to make him see that if he learns too much about me too soon.”
“Ye cannae hide what ye are forever, lassie.”
“I ken it. I but ask for a little time, enough time to touch his heart ere his fears send him hieing for the hills.”
Chapter 3
A low, steady rumble stirred Kenneth from his sleep. As he woke, memories of his rescue flooded his mind. He clearly saw the lovely young woman and her tiny brown companion and felt a lingering ache from the pain caused by their administrations. They had carried him up some narrow, winding stairs, placed him on a soft bed, sponged him down, and stitched his wounds. There was also a confused tangle of partial memories, but he shook them aside for he could make no sense of them. He slid his hand over the bandage on the right side of his waist and on his right leg. He was warm, comfortable, and despite the lingering pain, felt confident he would heal.
He opened his eyes and gave a soft cry of surprise. A huge gray cat was staring him in the face, its green eyes almost level with his. The source of the low rumble, he mused, as he cautiously lifted his hand and scratched the animal’s ears. He smiled at the look of pleasure on the animal’s face and at how the noise it made grew increasingly louder. It was unusual for a cat to be so friendly, so clean, and so well fed, and the animals were rarely allowed access to the bedchambers. Recalling the strange pair who had rescued him, he decided he should not be surprised that an animal most people scorned or feared would be made a pet.
“Slayer doesnae usually approve of people so quickly,” said a soft, husky voice from the foot of the bed.
Kenneth started slightly, wondering how she could have entered the room so quietly. “Slayer?”
“Aye. Nary a mouse nor a rat dares poke its pointed wee nose onto my lands.” She idly scratched the cat’s ears when it moved to sit in front of her, rubbing its head against her stomach. “Ye are in the bed he has claimed as his own. Each morning the sun comes in that window to your right and shines o’er the bed. He warms himself in its light until it moves on.”
“Ah, so that is why he was so friendly to me.”
“Nay, not completely. He is most particular about the ones he chooses as his friends.” She moved to the side of the bed and lightly felt his forehead and cheeks, relieved to find no hint of a fever. “How do ye feel?”
“I am still a wee bit weak, but I feel confident that I will heal. I do feel verra rested.”
“Ye should. Ye have slept for nigh on three days.” She smiled faintly at his shock. “I gave ye some herbal drinks to make ye rest. That is why ye slept for so long. I believe most strongly that sleep is the best cure for most illnesses and wounds.”
“Aye. I believe so as weel. That does explain the pieces of memories I can make no sense of. A glimpse of a face or a few words, no more.”
“Ye did rouse a bit now and again.”
“I owe ye my life. Ye and that odd wee mon. Where is he?”
“He will be here as soon as the sun sets.”
Isbel almost smiled when Sir Kenneth frowned, his expression telling her that he ached to ask a few questions and was fighting that urge. Pullhair was right. Kenneth knew what her little friend was, could see him clearly. The man either had a gift or two he was unaware of, or because they were so closely bonded, he had slipped beneath the cloak of her own.
Her delight over that faded abruptly. It was not really important why he could peek into the shadowed worlds. What mattered was that he could see all she had to deal with, and would quickly know exactly how magical Bandal was. That was not necessarily a good thing. The way he fought to deny the truth about Pullhair told Isbel that this was a new skill for him. Sir Kenneth Davidson was about to be privy to nearly everything most people were afraid of or, at best, simply preferred not to know about. That meant she would not have any time at all to win his heart before he discovered all of her secrets.
She inwardly battled with an almost overwhelming sense of defeat. Even if the fates were not using such a heavy hand in directing her, she knew she would have wanted Kenneth Davidson from the moment she set eyes upon him. He was breathtakingly handsome with his glossy, thick black hair and eyes of a deep rich brown. His smooth skin was a light shade of swarthy, as if he spent a great deal of time standing naked in the sun. He was long and lean, muscular in an attractive, subtle way. His features were cleanly cut, just sharp enough to be extraordinarily handsome, and unmarked by scars. The bottom lip of his well-shaped mouth was slightly fuller than the top. Several times as she had nursed him she had struggled against the strong urge to touch her lips to his. She was almost embarrassed by how badly she wanted him.
Cautiously, she reached out and covered his strong, long-fingered hand with hers. Patrick had bedded her only a few times before he had died, and she had found no pleasure in it. In truth, Patrick’s manner of lovemaking had left her feeling bruised and ashamed. Every part of her told her that, if she and Kenneth became lovers, she would finally know what the poets and minstrels spoke so eloquently about, and she desperately wished to know. If nothing else went as the fates wanted, she prayed there would be at least one chance for her and Kenneth to make love. It was probably a shameful way to think, but she did not care.
“I shall fetch you some food if you wish it,” she said quietly.
“I think I would yet I wouldnae trouble yourself too much. I am no stranger to wounds and healing and I suspect I willnae eat very much the first few times food is set before me.”
“Nay, ye willnae. Ye are right about that. The trick is to eat a little as often as ye can. I will fetch ye a little hearty broth, some bread, cheese and wine. Will that do?”
“Aye, that is most kind.”
The moment the woman left the room, Kenneth expelled a long, slow breath. He looked at his hand, still feeling the tingling warmth of her touch. He was not surprised that he wanted her for she was beautiful. Small and slender, she moved with the subtle invitation of a far more fulsome woman. Her thick, fair hair hung in long waves to her tiny waist. The most startling and alluring feature of her small face was a pair of wide, incredibly blue eyes rimmed by thick, long, pale brown lashes. Although her full mouth was sorely tempting, he always saw her eyes first. Each time she leaned close to him, he caught himself breathing deeply of her scent, the smell of clean skin touched with lavender.
Kenneth inwardly groaned as he felt his desire stir. Despite his pain and weakness, she could stir his blood with the slightest of touches or a brief, sweet smile. He would sternly remind himself that she had saved his life and that lusting after her was a poor way to thank her for that, but it did little to stem the longing. It made him feel ashamed of himself but he knew he was going to try and bed her before he left to return to his family’s lands.
Isbel returned, smiling shyly as she sat on the edge of the bed and set a tray of food before him. Wincing, and silently waving aside her attempt to assist him, Kenneth sat up straighter against the pillows she had set behind him. In his current state of near arousal, the last thing he needed was to feel those soft, small hands on his body.
“You live here alone?” he asked before she filled his mouth with the warm, hearty broth.
She only hesitated a moment before nodding. In his weakened state he could do her no harm. Neither could Isbel believe that the fates had brought them together just so that he could hurt her. She had already endured one cruel, frightening mate. She could not believe fate would be so cruel and push her into the arms of another like Patrick.
“These are my husband’s lands,” she replied.
“Ye are married?” Kenneth could not believe how deeply disappointed he was.
“I was once, nearly a year ago. I am a MacLachlan from Loch Fyne and I married a Graeme and moved here. But months after Patrick brought me here, he drowned in the river just a mile north of here.”
“Why did ye not return to your kinsmen?”
“I wished to remain here. These are my lands now, small though they might be. There were also things at Loch Fyne that I wished to run away from. I was not fully successful in evading my heritage, but I prefer the fact that I am alone now.”
“I think I have heard of the MacLachlans of Loch Fyne.” When she stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth, stopping his words abruptly, Kenneth wondered if she was trying to veer him away from the subject of her family.
“They are not without power and wealth. I havenae heard of the Davidsons of Glenmal, however.”
“And ye willnae hear much from me if ye keep stuffing food in my mouth.” He tried to smile as he turned his head to the side, silently refusing another spoonful of broth.
“Ah, I see. It was not much, but ’twill do for a start.”
Kenneth opened his mouth to thank her for her trouble, then tensed. In the far corner of the room he was certain he saw someone, an older woman in a stained gray gown. Even as he looked straight at her, however, what he had thought was a woman became no more than a glimmer of light.
“Now that was a wee bit odd,” he murmured, meekly allowing Isbel to help him lie back down.
“What was odd, Sir Kenneth?” she asked, tucking the blankets over him and forcing herself to stop lingering over the chore.
“I thought I saw a woman over there in the corner, near the chest.”
“There is no one at Bandal save myself, Pullhair, and Slayer.”
“But I am sure—”
“ ’Twas just a flicker of the sun’s light,” she assured him as she stood up and collected together the remains of his small meal.