The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) (2 page)

Hunter laughed, just as they came to the crest of a steep hill. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and a prickle of unease raised his hackles. Below them, nestled in the valley beside the North Esk River, stood a group of tents, booths and painted wagons like those of the wandering Romany. The scent of roasting meat, spices and ale wafted up the hill toward them. He signaled a halt. Why had he not sensed the presence of so many before this moment?

“Ah, I did detect the scent of roasting meat after all,” Nevan said with a grin. “I feared ’twas naught but longing for it that made it so.”

Frowning, Hunter spied a familiar sight, a green-and-white-striped tent set toward the far edge near a copse of pine. Memories tugged at his awareness, an old crone whose appearance shifted and changed before his eyes. She’d blown her breath into his ears, restoring his hearing—the hearing that had been lost to him by the same fever that took his mother. Sensing the old crone’s otherworldliness, he had feared her.

Madame Giselle, or Áine, as was her true name, was the daughter of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
’s high king. The faerie princess was Hunter’s distant kin and the source of his fae abilities. She was also the same faerie responsible for his father’s demise. Premonition prickled and skittered over his skin, but of what he could not say.

Tieren rode up to flank him. “What is it?”

He jutted his chin toward the fair below.
“I recognize the green-and-white-striped tent toward the far end.”
He used the signing they’d been taught as youths and glanced at his friend.
“
’
Tis Madame Giselle’s.”

“Are you certain
?
”
Tieren signed back as he studied the scene laid out beneath them.

“Aye.”
He had no need to offer more. Tieren understood him well enough.

“I smell meat and ale.” Nevan passed them by, nudging his horse down the hill. “And I intend to fill my belly with both.”

“Hold,” Hunter commanded. Nevan ignored him.

“What harm could befall us at a village fair?” Cecil rode up beside Hunter, flashing him a puzzled look. Murray followed close behind.

Gregory joined them and peered down at the cluster of tents and wagons below. He shrugged. “Seems harmless enough.”

“What village?” Hunter scowled at his companions. “There are none between here and Aberdeenshire. Have you ever heard tell of a fair being held here before, or at this time of year? Crofters are far too busy readying their fields for planting to travel anywhere this early in the season. Sheep are lambing, and the kine are calving. ’Tis no’ natural to hold a fair now.”

He turned his attention back toward the slope. “Return at once,” Hunter called again. Exasperated, he blew out a breath as Nevan continued on, once again defying his command. “All manner of harm can befall us if my suspicions serve.”

Gregory grunted. “I for one am beyond hunger for more than camp fare. The scent of roasting fowl has me drooling down the front of me tabard. A brief respite will do us good. We’ll do naught but fill our bellies, and then be on our way.”

“Aye?” Tieren said. “And what of the wagon, our squires and pages? Shall we risk all for the sake of our appetites? For all we ken, the gathering below might be a band of thieves intending to lure the unwary into their midst. I suggest we give heed to Hunter’s warning.”

Nevan’s lads had already started down the hill after him, their gangly limbs bouncing as they rode upon the bare backs of their trotting palfreys. Hunter’s insides twisted. Madame Giselle’s presence could not be construed as anything but intentional.
What did she want? Could he avoid her?
Nay. He could not. Already her summons tugged at him, sending fingers of trepidation traipsing down his spine. Surely she’d kept her presence masked from him until ’twas too late to keep his distance.

Mayhap she simply wished to lay eyes upon him. He was her progeny after all, no matter how distant the tie, and no matter how much it galled him that she was responsible for the loss of his father. Besides, he owed her a debt of gratitude. Were it not for her meddling, he would not have survived his youth, nor would he have been blessed with the foster family who had raised him. ’Twas certain she had done what she had for him to atone for the loss of his da.

He glanced toward the stone-arch bridge spanning the Esk. “Move the wagon across the river to the far side of the next rise. Wait for me there. I’ll go after Nevan and the lads. If all is well, the rest of you can visit the fair in turns.” He met each of their eyes before asking, “Agreed?”

“Aye.” Murray turned his horse back to the wagon and ordered the squires to take up their places. Gregory rode to the rear of their small procession as they got the wagon moving again.

“Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you? Isn’t it you who bids us never to go anywhere alone
?
”
Tieren signed, reverting again to the private method of communicating Lady True had taught them.

“Not this time,”
he signed back.
“
’Tis folly to go anywhere near the fae.”
Hunter shook his head.
“Best I do so without risking your hide as well. Stay with the wagon.”
He huffed out a breath. “If all goes well, I’ll be back within the hour, two at most.”

He started down the hill, anxiety tying him into knots. Once he got to the periphery of the fair, tension stretched his nerves taut. He couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness overwhelming him. Though all appeared ordinary enough, he noticed the lack of patrons or villagers. Where were Nevan and his lads?

He scanned his surroundings, vigilant for aught amiss, for any danger lurking in the shadows between the painted wagons. Vendors called to him as he passed, offering their wares. Swarthy men and women, dark-eyed and raven-haired, peered at him, their expressions slightly mocking. Aye, as he’d suspected, this was no ordinary fair. These folk were the wandering Romany, and all kent they were in league with the fae.

The smell of meat pies and roasted fowl caused a rumbling in his stomach, yet he didn’t dare partake. The closer he came to the faerie’s tent, the slower his pace. The flap of Giselle’s tent swung aside, revealing the old crone exactly as he remembered her. Hunter shivered in his boots and fought the urge to turn tail and gallop for the hills.

“Hunter! How fortuitous that our paths should meet thus. I have yearned to lay eyes upon you for far too long, and here you are.” Her dark eyes gleamed, and a cunning smile lit her wrinkled face.

Hunter’s blood rushed through his veins. His ears rang, and sweat beaded his brow. Though he could not read her like he could ordinary souls, she fair pulsed with power and magic. “Madame Giselle.” He made her a slight bow. “I suspect luck had no part in our meeting this day.”

She cackled as he dismounted, and dread settled like lead in his gut. Hunter tied Doireann’s reins to a low-hanging pine bough and turned to face her. Masking his expression, he did his best to hide the fear and revulsion being in her presence elicited. He wanted no part of the unnatural association he had with the fae. Gladly would he give up the gifts bestowed upon him if it meant severing the ties of kinship that bound them.

“You have naught to fear from me, Grandson.”

Was that hurt he spied flashing through her eyes? Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide his feelings. Why did he think he could? He’d gotten his abilities from her. Surely she’d be aware of everything he felt and thought.

“Come in.” She beckoned with a gesture and preceded him into the tent. “I wish only to spend a bit of time with you.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Mayhap I’ll tell your fortune whilst you’re here.”

“Nay.” He ducked to enter, his glance darting around the interior. A trunk sat to one side, and fresh rushes covered the hard-packed ground. In the center a roughly hewn table and two chairs had been set. A teapot and two mugs resting next to a deck of cards drew his attention. “I dinna need you to tell my fortune or my future, Madame Giselle. By my will alone do I forge my future, and by my sweat and blood do I earn my fortune.” She cackled again, and his muscles tensed for flight.

“By whose blood? Thanks to me, none can touch you with mere weapons of steel. Because my blood runs through your veins, you have the ability to anticipate how your enemies will strike before the strike occurs.” She took a seat at the table. “Are you so certain of what the future holds for you, my lad?”

“Aye.”

“Mayhap the path you’ve set your feet upon leads you astray.” She shrugged.
“
’Tis possible fate has other plans in store.”

“I am a knight, and I have made a vow which I intend to keep. Indeed, everything that I have worked toward these five years past has to do with keeping that promise.” In fact, he’d spent the whole of his life attempting to live up to the faith and expectations placed upon him by his foster family and clan. Their approval and high esteem meant everything to him. He owed them his life and his loyalty.

“I ken your true identity and what you are.” He remained standing, his posture rigid. “I suspect you are aware of the intentions I made clear the day Sky Elizabeth was born. Think you to alter my path or to induce me to renege?” He raised an eyebrow and sent her a pointed look. “I willna. What is it you want from me?”

“Aye. I’m well aware of the vow you made as a mere lad of but five of your mortal years. Sit.” She gestured to the chair across from hers. “Have some tea. You are my kin.” She canted her head and studied him. “Is it so beyond the realm of possibility that I wish only to spend a bit of time in your company? I have not seen you for far too long. The
Tuatha
have hearts not unlike those of mortals. We too bear affection for our progeny, whether they accept that affection or not.”

His eyes widened, and a sliver of guilt wedged its way into his heart. He had intended to thank her for saving his life, and he’d done naught but posture defensively. “My apologies if I have offended you, madam. For certes I have you to thank for my life, and I am grateful.” He bowed to her again and sat down.

“Tea?” She filled the two mugs with the steaming contents of the pot, and the scent of herbs and honey wafted up around them in a cloud of steam. She slid one of the mugs toward him.

“My thanks.” He took a sip and struggled to come up with something to say. What conversation could he offer that would be of interest to one such as she?

“Hunter, you are a direct descendant of the goddess Danu, as am I. My father is the high king of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
and also your kin. You come from a royal line. Never think yourself
unworthy
.” Her tone had taken on a haughty cadence.
“
’
Twas my mortal husband who traveled here from Eire eons ago. He began the MacConnell clan on this land and ruled a vast holding. Time has reduced that proud kingdom to naught, but never forget where you come from.”

Did she see what lay in his innermost thoughts and in his heart? He yearned for more than knighthood—a title, land and a strong keep. Only then would his offer for Sky be worthy of acceptance. His mind reeled with Giselle’s revelation. He was royalty and descended from the first MacConnell?
Was this the source of his yearning and for the ambition thrumming through him? Mayhap, but it served him naught at present, and he needed to keep his wits about him. No matter what she said, he kent well enough the ways of the fae.

“Shall I declare to the world that I am royalty and the descendant of a goddess of old?” He snorted. “Who would believe me, and how would such a claim alter my rank within the society in which I live?” He shook his head. “Nay, I canna, lest I be ostracized, or worse, condemned for a madman and thrown into some deep, dank dungeon to be shackled in irons. I’m grateful for the gifts my lineage has bestowed upon me. Truth be told, ’tis the reason for my success, but I canna make it public. No document of patents from you will aid me. I must make my own way.”

“Ah, but you are grateful?”

“You may be certain that I am. Were it no’ for your intervention, I would no’ be here today. I have you to thank for my family and for my place within the MacKintosh clan.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes filled with a triumphant glint, and her face creased with amusement. “Then you will not be averse to doing me a small favor in return?”

“Och!” He plowed his fingers through his hair, his position suddenly untenable. “I am no match for you, Madame Giselle. What is it you wish of me?” Apprehension sent his heart racing again.

“Restore balance.” She shrugged. “Make right a wrong of old.”

“Is that all,” he bit out in a dry tone.

She laughed, only this time the sound was less a cackle and more melodious. Tiny bumps rose upon his flesh. “If you please, dinna shift your appearance. I canna abide your true mien. I will admit I fear you in your fae form. ’Tis no’ of this world.”

“As you wish, my lad.” Her smile softened. “I do not want you to fear me. I wish only the best for you, and I hope one day you will see that truth for yourself.” Her expression turned pensive as she scrutinized him. “You are so like him—so much like the mortal man I wed. It does my heart good to look upon you.”

He squirmed in his chair and gripped his mug with both hands. “The favor?”

“Ah, yes.” Her gaze sharpened.
“
’
Tis a small thing, really.”

Frustration overwhelmed him. For certes this favor would delay his homecoming or inconvenience him greatly in some unforeseen way. God’s blood, he hoped it did not involve time travel! Too well he kent the havoc ’twould wreak upon his well-laid plans. His entire being rebelled at the thought, and mortification burned a path through to his very soul. He had been so easily manipulated, and now he was truly caught up in her machinations. “What must I do to make right this wrong that in no way involved myself in its inception?”