The Renegade’s Heart

Claire Delacroix

Released from the captivity of the Fae, Murdoch Seton wants nothing more than to forget his lost years. Undertaking a quest to recover treasure stolen from his family seems the perfect solution—but Murdoch is not counting upon a curious maiden who holds both the secret to the theft and his sole redemption.

Isabella is outraged to find her brother’s keep besieged by a renegade knight—especially one who is too handsome for his own good or hers. After a single encounter, she becomes convinced that his cause is just and decides to unveil the true thief, never imagining that their single shared kiss has launched a battle for Murdoch’s very soul.

As the treacherous Fae move to claim Murdoch forever, Isabella seeks to heal the knight who has stolen her heart. But will Murdoch allow her to take a risk and endanger herself? Or will he sacrifice himself to ensure Isabella’s future?

The Renegade’s Heart

Copyright 2012 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Illustration by Eithne O’Hanlon

Cover by Kim Killion

Digital Design by A Thirsty Mind, 2013

ISBN: 978-1-927477-00-7

Digital Edition

Excerpt: The Highlander’s Curse

Copyright 2013 Deborah A. Cooke

Excerpt: Kiss of Fire

Copyright 2008 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

This book is also available in a trade paperback print edition.

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Dear Reader:

Welcome back to medieval Scotland!

The Renegade’s Heart is the first book in my True Love Brides series, which picks up the story of the Lammergeier siblings from my Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy. By the end of The Snow White Bride, Alexander had resolved to let his younger sisters marry for love and at their own choice. This new series tells those stories at long last. It has been a few years since I wrote about Kinfairlie and Ravensmuir, so time has passed for my characters as well. The older sisters have had children, Eleanor is pregnant for the second time, and both Isabella and Elizabeth are impatient to find their true loves.

The Renegade’s Heart is Isabella’s story. Although she is younger than Annelise, the Isabella we already know and love is not one to be shy about stepping forward out of turn. Murdoch and the injustice he has experienced makes him the perfect hero for Isabella—while she is the woman who can set all to right in his world. Murdoch’s experience is out of the ordinary—he has been the captive of the Elphine Queen, a Fae monarch, and realizes too late that his release from her kingdom is just a trick. He resolves to make whatever time he has in the mortal realm worthwhile and sets out to correct an injustice done to his family, apparently by the family at Kinfairlie. He never anticipates that Isabella will not only help him to succeed, but will steal his heart and save him from the dark queen’s plans. Their story is that of love conquering considerable obstacles and it was fun to write.

This book begins as the new series will continue, with more prevalent paranormal and fantasy elements than was the case in the Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy. I always wanted the realm of the Fae to become more intermingled with the world of the Lammergeier family—we’ve heard the stories before that Kinfairlie was a portal to the Fae realm. Now the Elphine Queen is asserting her power in this neglected corner of her realm and the portals between the worlds are being kicked wide open. I’m looking forward to the interactions between the worlds and the conflicts that will inevitably result.

A series of linked books also gives us a large cast of characters. That there are eight siblings in the Kinfairlie family is one thing, but as they marry and have children, the list of characters becomes more extensive. It even takes me a few minutes to straighten out who is who each time I come back to Kinfairlie! As a result, I’ve added a Cast of Characters for your reference. In this digital edition, it is linked from the Table of Contents. In the print edition, it appears at the end of the book.

There is also an excerpt from the next book in the True Love Brides series: The Highlander’s Curse is Annelise’s book and will be released in April 2013.

That’s all my news for this time! I’ve had a wonderful time revisiting Kinfairlie and I hope you enjoy Isabella’s story.

Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.

All my best—

Claire

Prologue

Murdoch Seton rode for home as if he had escaped the very gates of Hell. The moon was new and his heart was filled with fear. What would he find on his return to Seton Manor? He has seen so much since his departure, so much that defied belief, and he no longer knew what to believe.

Had the Elphine Queen truly released him from the realm of the Fae?

At what price?

Or was this merely an illusion, a jest made at his expense? No man escaped the Fae once he had been claimed, not after he had gazed into the fathomless eyes of the Elphine Queen.

Was Murdoch an exception, or a pawn? He knew well enough how the Fae loved a jest, particularly one played at the expense of a mortal.

Each step, each day, made his release seem more plausible. He scanned his surroundings for evidence that he was actually in the mortal realm. The hills rose just as high as he recalled and the sky overhead was as vivid a blue. The forest was devoid of laughing faces, strange lights, and sounds that had no mortal source. He could not see the dead, even in the darkness and solitude of deepest night.

Could the Elphine Queen have kept her pledge? He had offered to trade her any thing in exchange for his freedom, and had been stunned when she had simply returned his belongings. His steed, Zephyr, was none the worse for wear from their time among the Fae, and his armor had been well-tended.

His leg was still healed.

It all seemed too good to be true.

How long had he been gone? He could not say. It felt like the blink of an eye, but he knew the tales of those held captive by the Fae well enough. It could have been a year. A decade. A century. The possibilities were terrifying. What had changed in his absence? A river’s reflection had revealed that he did not look any different, save perhaps for a new wariness in his eyes.

But that might have been the ripple of the wind on the water.

He would know when he arrived home, for better or for worse.

Finally, the road bent ahead of him in a familiar curve and Murdoch’s chest tightened in anticipation. His home and family should lie around that bend. Would his father welcome him back? Would all be as he recalled? Or would his existence have been forgotten? Murdoch’s suspicions redoubled, for this should be the moment that any Fae trick was revealed. He almost could not bear to look.

But he had to know.

Murdoch dismounted and walked his horse. It could not be a mile to the keep where he had been born and raised—if it was there. His pulse was racing. Indeed, if this was a trick, if the Fae leapt from the shadows laughing from every side when he saw the truth, Murdoch feared the disappointment would kill him. There had long been a hollow ache where he felt his heart should be, and he was terrified that his sojourn had changed his life forever.

Home. It was all he had yearned to see again.

Indeed, he had never wanted to leave. And he did not return with the wealth he had hoped to gain, the wealth that would have ensured the survival of the holding he loved. Would his father cast him out as a failure? Would he be spurned? That last argument rang in his ears, tormenting him with their sour parting.

Uncertainty made Murdoch stop just before the tower should come into view. Zephyr nickered, stamping a foot with impatience. He watched the beast sniff the air and flick its ears. The palfrey behind, lightly loaded, was alert and unafraid.

Murdoch chose to trust.

There was a lump in his throat when the keep came into view and he was unwilling even to blink. The high square tower was there, as solid and tall as he recalled, and Murdoch stared in wonder.

Seton Hall was exactly as it had been.

Even though he was not.

He studied the scene, greedy for details, seeking clues that it was an illusion. Smoke rose from the roof, undoubtedly smoke from the fires in the kitchens. There was a bustle in the village clustered against the outer walls of the keep, and more than a few fires burning there. He could hear the clanging from the blacksmith’s shop and wondered whether old MacCarthy was as opinionated as ever. Murdoch could smell bread baking and fish curing in the sun, and hear the millstones grinding steadily in the distance.

The lake glimmered like a mirror behind keep and village, reflecting the perfect blue of a clear sky. Beyond that and to the left was the spring long rumored to be a source of healing waters.

The winter sunlight touched the stones of the tower with gold, making his home look as precious in truth as it was to Murdoch. In reality, he knew it was less than a rich holding, but it was home as nowhere else could ever be.

To his relief, there were no Fae. There were no ghosts. No shadowy dead paused to stare at him. It seemed the Elphine Queen had kept her word.

Murdoch still feared trickery. But even this glimpse was more than he could have expected, more than he could have hoped to gain. There were tears in his eyes as he strode closer, and his step was lighter than it had been in years. Home! He dared to hope that he had not lost much time.

Zephyr tossed his head and pranced with new vigor. The palfrey quickened her pace, perhaps sensing a warm stable and a good brush, and cantered alongside the stallion. Murdoch laughed and broke into a run, his pace matched by the two beasts.

A man crossed the road ahead of him, heading from village to castle, and paused to glance back at the sound of the horses’ hooves. Murdoch couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Stewart, one of his father’s most trusted men-at-arms, grey of beard but still hale and ruddy.

Stewart froze and stared, as if Murdoch were a ghost.

The older man’s expression gave Murdoch a new fear. Surely, he was not the one who was dead? Had she taken his soul? What if Murdoch had become one of the shadows that could only be seen by the Fae? He had time to panic, then the older man laughed aloud.

“My lord Murdoch!” Stewart bellowed, with a volume only he could produce. He flung his hands into the air with joy and shouted with pleasure. “Against all expectation, my lord Murdoch is returned! Praise be to God!”

“Stewart!” Murdoch bounded toward the man he had known from childhood.

The older man laughed and caught Murdoch in a fierce hug, one that nearly cracked his ribs. Murdoch felt a tear on his cheek.

Home. He was home.

“We thought you a dead man, but here you stand, as hale as ever.” Stewart forced a smile and clapped Murdoch on the back. “Where have you been, lad?”

Murdoch froze. “I do not understand.” He feared he did understand. How much time had passed?

“The Earl of Buchan was here,” Stewart said with quiet intensity. “A year ago.” Murdoch’s thoughts flew. A year? He had left Buchan in France, that man intending to stay until the end of the war. Though it felt to Murdoch that no more than a fortnight had passed, here was proof otherwise.

Stewart continued. “He stopped on his way home to ensure that you had arrived safely.” Murdoch caught his breath. “He told of a fearsome injury you had, an infection in the wound that could not be healed.”

“All true,” Murdoch admitted.

“He said he had dispatched you for home.”

Murdoch nodded.

Stewart’s eyes narrowed and Murdoch braced himself. “Almost three years ago. lad.”

Three years! The Elphine Queen had stolen three years from his life. Murdoch had to avert his gaze for he felt dizzy. He had his answer but he did not have to like it.

What else had changed in three years?

He could not even ask. Stewart squeezed his shoulder and spoke quietly. “Your father took the tidings from Buchan badly. He died believing you dead, lad. Where have you been?”

Murdoch stared at his boots, sick with the realization that his father was gone, and that the harsh words they had exchanged would be the last they ever spoke to each other. “I was detained,” he said, knowing that no man would believe the truth. “Battle and bloodshed are best left behind.”

Stewart studied him closely, his silence prompting Murdoch to say more.

“I have seen more than a man should ever witness,” he said, meaning every word.

“Fair enough, my lord,” Stewart agreed in an undertone. “Your brother will be glad you are returned. There is much changed here at Seton Manor.” Stewart smiled. “But some matters remain the same.” He turned then and raised his voice. “Are you all deafened? The laird’s son is arrived home!”

People came running then, running from every corner of the keep and courtyard and even the village. They surrounded Murdoch, their faces familiar and filled with joy, their eyes alight that he had returned. He was clapped on the back, hugged and kissed, and had his hand shaken a thousand times.

Abruptly, a fierce wind swept over them, its cold making them huddle into their cloaks and its force making the small children stumble. Murdoch glanced back, into the teeth of the sudden wind, to see that snow was falling thickly on the road he had just traveled.

It had been dry only moments before and the sky had been clear. Now the trees alongside the road were coated with ice, each branch and needle encased in a glittering icy shell of hoarfrost. The sky was dark overhead, and that icy wind blew directly toward Seton Hall.

From a direction the wind never blew.

Murdoch was not the only one left shivering.

“You have brought the foul weather, lad!” Stewart jested and the others laughed. “Into the hall. The laird will offer ale to everyone to celebrate his brother’s return.” The crowd cheered and surged forward, boys leading Murdoch’s horses to the stables, others carrying his saddlebags.

But Murdoch looked back into the eye of the approaching storm, knowing that Stewart had inadvertently spoken the truth.

Something had followed him. Something that would take every sweetness from his homecoming.

Murdoch feared he knew what—or who—it was. He had promised any thing in exchange for the chance to return home.

Only now did he begin to fear what the Elphine Queen would demand.

Chapter One

Kinfairlie, Scotland

January 1424

When the moon was in its first quarter of the new year, a strange wind came rattling through Kinfairlie’s hall. That wind bore down on Kinfairlie with astonishing force and cold, slipping through the chinks in the mortar, scattering spices and making the water swirl in the buckets. Darkness came earlier from that day hence, and the nights were filled with threat and ominous whispers.

There was not a soul who did not curse the change, or the relentless buffet of that wind. It seemed impossible to evade its frosty fingers, or to ever get fully warm. Lanterns were snuffed and candles blown out by its gusts. Fires were nearly impossible to start, with that wind gusting across hearth and brazier, and tempers became short.

Usually the coldest winds came from the sea, bearing dampness and often snow. This wind was fierce and unfamiliar. It blew from the north, ferocious and icy. Yet at the same time, the butter turned rancid and the meat spoiled in the larder, despite the cold temperatures. There were those who said it was a punishment, a retribution for sin, or even for the comparative ease of the winter so far.

Isabella did not believe a word of that. Since the winter had been mild before this change, she had been immersed in her studies of the healing plants, under the tutelage of her brother’s wife, Eleanor. Ever since Isabella had tried to play a jest upon her brother Alexander during his courtship of Eleanor and that jest had gone awry, she had been determined to learn the healer’s craft so she could not so err again. Eleanor had been only too glad to have an apprentice and Isabella was an avid student these past three years. It suited her well to be able to make a difference in the lives of those around her.

This wind made labor for Isabella, as many in Kinfairlie fell ill with a persistent cough, one that began the first night of the wind’s arrival and would not abate. As well, Eleanor herself fell ill, leaving more to Isabella. Eleanor was at the beginning of her second pregnancy, though it was only with arrival of the wind that she became unable to eat. Isabella worked long, fearing that Eleanor might lose her child.

It was on the third morning of the wind’s wailing that Isabella strode into the chamber she shared with her two unwed sisters. As Isabella entered, her youngest sister Elizabeth looked up from her book. Isabella saw that it was the ledger from the kitchens. “Are you doing the inventory for Eleanor?”

“Spices on this day. She keeps a rigorous schedule in her inventories and I would ensure that she has no need to rise from bed.” Elizabeth’s expression turned hopeful. “Is she better?”

“She grows impatient with time spent abed and tells me this is a good portent for a patient’s recovery.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“That and complaints about the fare,” Isabella added and Elizabeth laughed. “I must go to the village to check on those with the cough, then concoct another posset for Eleanor.”

Elizabeth watched Isabella. “You enjoy this labor.”

“I do.” Isabella paused at an unfamiliar note in her sister’s tone. “Does that trouble you?”

Elizabeth frowned. “I am happy for you, of course. You have found a task that you love and your passion for it is clear. Even Annelise seems to be in her element, caring for Roland each day.” She made a face, but Isabella knew Elizabeth did not resent either their other sister or Eleanor and Alexander’s son.

“So what is amiss?” she prompted.

Elizabeth sighed again. “I have no similar passion. Indeed, my yearnings are for things I doubt I shall ever have.”

“Like what?” Isabella sat down beside her sister.

“I yearn for adventure. Love. Bold deeds.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “A knight to capture me and claim me as his own. He should be valiant and handsome, and undefeated in battle.”

“As well as wealthy and landed,” Isabella teased.

“Of course!”

“You want to live in a tale.”

“And what is so wrong with that? More than two years have passed since our brother saw Madeline and Vivienne wedded, then took a bride himself. Two sisters and a brother wedded in a year! Did you not think we would be married by now?” Elizabeth flung out her hands. “We shall die ancient and withered in this keep!”

Isabella laughed and rose to fasten her cloak. “I believe there is yet time.”

“Are you not impatient?”

“Alexander vowed we would wed at our own choice. I am content to bide my time in choosing, that I might choose well.”

“Since when is patience one of your virtues?” Elizabeth teased.

Isabella turned away, pretending to seek some trinket. She had seen much of the matters of women in assisting Eleanor. She had been present when the life of Ceara, the wife of the miller’s son, had hung in the balance in the delivery of their first child. And Isabella was resolved that if she were to take such a risk for a man, she would have to love him with her heart and soul.

As Eleanor loved Alexander, and as Ceara loved Matthew.

“And who shall you choose?” Elizabeth continued. “There is never a man of interest to come to this keep and Alexander will not take us to even the earl’s court.” Elizabeth lifted the ledger. “We had best be about our labors. At least you look forward to yours.”

Isabella had not managed a reply when the sound of hoof beats carried through the window.

“Destriers!” Elizabeth said. She raced past Isabella and flung open the shutter, admitting the chill of the morning. “Knights!” she breathed in awe. She grinned at Isabella and lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling with new merriment. “Husbands!”

“You think of only one thing!” Isabella teased.

“Alexander must have summoned them. Or they come to beg his favor. I must be in the hall to greet them!” Elizabeth hastened out of the chamber, her footsteps pounding on the stairs as she descended to the great hall.

Isabella, always cursed by curiosity, went to the window to look.

Two horses galloped along the road to Kinfairlie’s gates, their manes and tails flying in the wind. They were magnificent steeds, so large and muscled that Isabella knew them to be destriers. Elizabeth had doubtless been right about knights, for the warhorses were richly caparisoned. Isabella saw the gleam of sunlight on armor.

The lead horse was so pale a silver as to be nearly white. Its mane and tale were as dark as pewter. Its trappings were deep blue, and the tabard of the knight riding it was of that same deep blue. He wore chain mail and a long full cape as dark as midnight flowed from his shoulders. As he drew nearer, Isabella saw that his tabard bore no insignia. His hair was black and long enough to curl over his ears.

The second horse was a chestnut with a white star on its brow and white socks. It was no less handsome than the first. The man riding it was older and garbed in the plaid favored by the highlanders. He wore a leather jerkin and a white shirt, and his hair was both short and grey. A seasoned warrior, Isabella sensed that he was aware of all that surrounded them, but kept his expression impassive.

Her gaze returned to the younger man.

They galloped directly to the gates, the horses stamping and snorting when they were compelled to halt before the gatekeeper. Their breath sent plumes of white into the air.

“I am Murdoch Seton,” cried the man with the dark hair. He was handsome enough to make Elizabeth’s heart flutter, Isabella was certain of it. His voice was so rich and deep, his confidence so beguiling that Isabella herself thought to shiver. His manner was audacious, which snared Isabella’s interest. “I am come to deliver a message to the Laird of Kinfairlie.”

The gatekeeper, a doughty man who seldom smiled, barred the entry with his spear. Isabella heard the rumble of his voice but could not discern his words.

The pale horse pranced in impatience. “My brother’s request will not be surrendered to the gatekeeper and forgotten,” Murdoch Seton said, a surprising hostility in his tone. “I will speak to the laird and tell him of it myself.” His gaze danced over the tower and Isabella withdrew slightly, fearing that he would spot her.

There was something about him that held her gaze, though, a vitality that was uncommon among men.

“I will send word to my laird and you will wait.”

“I will not be deterred from this mission,” the knight said with a determination that was surprising. “I have but a message to deliver, and no man of integrity would turn such a missive aside.”

“But...” It was clear to Isabella that the gatekeeper did not trust this Murdoch Seton.

Why? Did he know of him? Or did he simply dislike the man’s imperious manner? Isabella drew back the shutter a little more. It seemed almost that the knight expected to be refused or turned aside. Why?

“I see you do not send word and perhaps you do not mean to,” the knight said with impatience. “I will take word of my arrival to the laird myself.”

The gatekeeper obviously protested, but this Murdoch Seton dismounted, casting the reins of his steed to his partner. He made to push past the gatekeeper’s spear, and Isabella saw that he was both tall and muscular. There must have been purpose in his gaze, for the gatekeeper took a step back. He kept the spear lowered, though.

“You will not enter this hall armed!” he declared.

Murdoch cast a wry smile at his companion, then unbuckled his belt and scabbard. Instead of surrendering it to the gatekeeper, he handed it to his companion, then stepped close to the gatekeeper.

Isabella leaned out the window to hear his words.

“I leave both steed and sword in the custody of my companion. Should he be divested of them in my absence, or should he not be here when I return, I shall take word to the king of the treachery that has claimed Kinfairlie.” Then he pushed aside the spear with a gloved fingertip and marched toward the portal.

Isabella’s mouth dropped open. He threatened the gatekeeper? But he was the one who sought admission. Why was he so resolved?

The gatekeeper turned and looked after the knight, his astonishment clear. The older man, the companion of the knight, appeared to be amused.

Why did the knight assume his message would be refused?

Isabella had to know.

She spun and ran for the door, thinking she would listen in the great hall as the knight made his argument. She flung open the door, but there was no sign of Elizabeth. Isabella had no sooner concluded that her sister must have descended to the great hall when she heard boots on the stairs, approaching quickly. It sounded as if a man took the stairs two or even three at a time. She might have retreated but the dark-haired knight crested the top of the stairs.

He slowed his pace to consider her. His eyes, Isabella could now see, were a clear and deep blue and he was ruggedly handsome. Even though she was tall, he was taller. He strode toward her with such care that she thought of a wolf hunting its prey. His gaze was unswerving and a crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

Isabella felt hot, right to her toes.

“The maiden from the window,” he murmured and the appreciation in his low voice made Isabella flush. “Yet more curious than I imagined.”

“While you, sir, are more bold than might be expected.”

He smiled outright then, the expression softening his features in a most attractive way. Isabella could not avert her gaze. Indeed, it seemed she could not breathe.

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from lower on the stairs. “Sir, I must insist upon speaking first to the laird of your presence.” The old castellan could be heard huffing as he climbed the stairs behind the new arrival.

Isabella would not be daunted by this knight. She straightened, aware that Anthony would hear whatsoever she said. “I understand that you are Murdoch Seton,” she said crisply. “I, for one, would not keep you from delivering your missive. It must be of great import for you to be so concerned of your reception.”

“And so it is,” he acknowledged, his eyes glinting.

Was he mocking her? Flirting with her? Isabella did not know, but his manner flustered her in a most unwelcome way.

“Then I shall not delay you further.” She made to step past this rogue, but he touched a fingertip to her elbow. The weight of his finger stopped her. She glanced up at him, and was snared by the intensity of his gaze.

Had she ever seen eyes of such a vivid blue?

“Perhaps the lady’s smile would be worth a delay.” he said, his voice as soft as silken velvet.

“Perhaps a guest should not be so rude as to make demands before he is welcomed,” she retorted.

“In normal circumstance, I would agree,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. His fingertip slid toward her wrist in a most deliberate and shocking way. Isabella stared at it, surprised by the shivers than raced over her flesh, emanating from that point. “Has the lady a name?”

“Of course,” Isabella said. “But I understand the guest has a quest.” She stepped away, just as Anthony reached the summit of the stairs.

The castellan glared at Murdoch. “My lady Isabella, did this man trouble you?”

Murdoch chuckled and Isabella flushed that he now knew the name she would have kept from him.

“No, Anthony,” Isabella said. “I merely reminded him that it is common courtesy for guests to be announced.”

“And so it is,” Anthony said with all the considerable hauteur he could summon. “I will precede you to my laird and if he wishes to speak with you, he shall.”

“Oh, he will speak with me,” Murdoch said quietly. The threat in his tone caught at Isabella’s ears. “It is not every man who wishes to hear of the grievances made against him, but the Laird of Kinfairlie will hear mine.”

“We shall see,” Anthony huffed and marched onward, beckoning the knight with a terse gesture.

Grievances? Isabella paused on the stairs to the hall and glanced back, only to find the knight’s gaze locked upon her. What complaint could Murdoch have of Alexander? Her brother was well known for the fairness of his courts and the justice of his administration. She had assumed Elizabeth was correct, but now she wondered at Murdoch’s intent.

Anthony climbed the stairs to the third floor and this time, Murdoch waited behind.

Because he was watching Isabella.

Almost as if he dared her to continue their conversation.

Isabella glanced down the stairs, noted the devilry in his gaze, then accepted his dare. She took a step back toward him, mindful of Anthony’s proximity. “What complaint could you have against my brother?” she whispered. “He is honest and just...”

“Then perhaps my brother is in error,” Murdoch said, his tone revealing that he believed otherwise. “Doubtless your brother will tell me the truth.” He said this last as if he did not believe it.

It was his confidence in Alexander’s poor character that nettled her, for it was unfair.

Even though she did not know what had fed his conclusions.

“Of course, he will,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “My brother is true...”

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from the third floor.

Murdoch bowed before Isabella. “To my regret, duty calls, my lady Isabella.”

Isabella opened her mouth to tell this man what to do with his presumption, then she saw the wicked twinkle in his eyes. His fingertip brushed the tip of her nose playfully, his gaze dropping to her lips. Isabella stepped backward in outrage at his boldness, but before she could think of what to say, he leapt up the stairs to the third floor.

He spun on the stairs, just before disappearing from view, and blew her a cocky kiss.

The man had no lack of confidence in his charm, that much was certain. Or in any maiden’s fascination with him!

Isabella pivoted, her annoyance simmering, and took two steps toward the kitchens where she would gather ingredients for Eleanor’s posset.

Then she halted. If she went to the kitchens, she would never know what accusation the knight would make against Alexander. Her brother shared no confidences now that he was laird.

And Isabella wanted to know this knight’s complaint.

Isabella hurried back into the chamber shared by the sisters, closed the door and waited until Anthony limped back down to the hall. Then she raced to the third floor on silent feet, flattened herself against the wall beside the door to Alexander’s chamber, and listened.

* * *

All that has gone awry is your fault.

Duncan’s furious words had echoed in Murdoch’s thoughts for the entire ride south to Kinfairlie. Their father was dead, Seton Manor’s treasury was empty, the relic Murdoch had once advised his father to purchase was stolen, and his brother, Duncan, placed the blame for all misfortune squarely on Murdoch’s shoulders. The fact that Murdoch had not brought wealth home with him had only fed his brother’s fury.

Make matters right or never return.

In truth, Murdoch was not certain he wished to return to the place that Seton Manor had become. But he owed loyalty to the people he had known and loved, he would do honor to his father’s memory, and he would see justice served.

Even if his sense that a trap closed around him grew stronger with every passing day. Did he live a nightmare, or were his memories of the Elphine Queen the dream from which he yearned to awaken?

Murdoch had not given great credence to Duncan’s conviction that the Lammergeier family must have stolen back the relic that been acquired at the auction held by their sister estate of Ravensmuir—at least not until he had seen the obvious affluence of Kinfairlie.

An affluence that had no obvious source.

Could his brother be right? Murdoch would find the truth. He was bent upon seeing the laird, upon surprising him and seeing his reaction when he had no time to prepare.

He had not counted upon a maiden with flashing eyes.

Isabella.

She reminded him of the old tale his mother had told of a maiden with lips as red as blood and cheeks as white as snow. But instead of hair as black as a raven’s wing, Isabella had long curling tresses that could have been wrought of flame. Her eyes were as green as emeralds, snapping with intelligence, and he liked how directly she spoke.

She was bold, this one. Murdoch admired that she did not hesitate to speak in favor of justice. They shared that trait. She was curious, for she had been at the window. Murdoch had much respect for people who kept their eyes open and did not shy from truth.

She had been dressed in a kirtle of pale green, the color accenting her eyes. The gown was almost austere in its lack of embroidery or lavish detail, and the fit of it showed her slender strength to advantage. A curious and practical woman who spoke directly and dressed plainly was one destined to capture his gaze.

As Isabella had done.

Murdoch found himself yearning for a taste of Isabella, if only to discover whether such a pragmatic mortal might truly be as enchanting as an otherworldly one.

But he had a quest to fulfill.

He pushed the image of her from his thoughts and concentrated on the task before him. He had to note every nuance of the laird’s response to assess his honesty.

Alexander of Kinfairlie was younger than Murdoch had expected. The laird could not have seen thirty summers, although his dark hair had a few threads of silver. He did not look like a man who had ridden frequently to war, though his gaze was steady. Murdoch was tempted to trust him, in defiance of what he suspected to be true.

Perhaps, like the Elphine Queen, this laird was not what he seemed to be. Would a family said to be comprised of sorcerors and thieves not know how to foster trust?

The laird’s youth annoyed him. Murdoch felt they were unfairly matched and did not look forward to any dissent between them.

The men greeted each other, then the laird waited, his expression expectant.

“I have come to Kinfairlie with a complaint from my family.”

“Indeed?” The laird frowned slightly. “You and I are not acquainted. Have I met your family?”

“My brother Duncan is Laird of Seton Manor, a responsibility he assumed upon the demise of my father.” Murdoch noted that the laird seemed to not recognize the name of his family estate. Trick or truth? He could not say. “Before his death, my father attended an auction at Ravensmuir, your sister estate, at which he purchased a religious relic for our chapel.”

A shadow touched the laird’s eyes and he looked out the window. Guilt? Regret? Murdoch’s suspicion pricked at this glimpse of evasiveness.

“As did many,” the laird acknowledged. “My uncle was pleased with the success of that event. He wished to be rid of that legacy in an honest and correct way.”

The comment intrigued Murdoch. “He is pleased no longer?”

The laird grimaced. “Tynan is dead.” He crossed himself and Murdoch did the same.

“Recently?”

The laird surveyed the correspondence before himself, his evasiveness growing. “He died shortly after that auction. I miss his counsel.”

Murdoch could well understand that. Grief could explain the other man’s reaction and he felt a moment’s compassion for this young laird.

But a moment later, that feeling was dismissed.

“Is your family not satisfied with the acquisition?” the laird asked, something in his tone making Murdoch feel he had already guessed Murdoch’s complaint.

“My father was,” Murdoch acknowledged, watching the laird with care. “Indeed, Seton Manor has become accustomed to receiving many pilgrims at Eastertide, when the relic is shown to the congregation. There have been several healings attributed to its powers.”

The laird relaxed slightly. “I am glad to hear of it.”

“You will not be glad to hear the relic has disappeared,” Murdoch said. The laird paled. This was not news to him and Murdoch knew it well.

Murdoch continued, forcing his tone to remain even. “Much less that it has been stolen from my brother’s treasury, a treasury kept both locked and guarded.” Aware he was at the very heart of Kinfairlie and could readily disappear if he insulted the laird, he said what had to be said. “There have been those who recalled the reputation of your family once they heard the tale. I have come in pursuit of the truth.” He arched a brow. “Or the return of the relic. Either will satisfy me.”

“You think I stole it back? Or that my family did?” The laird pretended to be shocked, but he was not entirely so.

“I fear you might know more of its location than you might choose to confess.”

The laird’s eyes flashed. “I do not!”

Murdoch saw no reason to be coy. “Yet you are not surprised by my accusation.”

Their gazes locked and held over the laird’s correspondence. The laird bit off his next words. “That does not make it true.”

“Your denial does not make it false.”

The laird flushed and might have spoken but Murdoch held up one hand. “You should know that Scotland is full of tales of disappearing relics, all bought for good coin from Ravensmuir. I have heard a dozen similar stories on my recent journey south.” The laird paled and sat down heavily. “Rumor abounds that the Lammergeier have returned to their old trade in relics, whether those relics are honestly acquired or no. Rumor abounds of the Lammergeier’s talent with sorcery, and there are suggestions that such dark arts have been used to conjure those relics from their rightful places.”

The laird flushed now in his indignation and his voice rose. “That is not true! As I told you, Tynan is dead, and I have no interest in this trade.”

“Perhaps another of your kin resumes it.”

“No.” The laird spoke flatly, but still he could not look Murdoch in the eye.

Murdoch cleared his throat. “I do not care what other relics have disappeared, or even where they have gone. I do not care if you Lammergeier truly are sorcerors or even the thieves you are reputed to be.” The laird blinked at this but Murdoch let the other man see his determination. “I want only the relic belonging to my family returned to me.”

The laird averted his gaze. “I am sorry that I have no way of doing such a deed.”

Murdoch knew a lie when he heard one. “Yet you do not even ask me what it is.” He paced the width of the room with measured steps. “You do not ask when it disappeared, or how it was secured, or when it last was viewed.” He paused before the laird once more. “You merely deny all knowledge.” He folded his arms across his chest to regard the laird. “There are those who might suggest your manner speaks of guilt.”

“You will not insult me in my own hall!” the laird declared.

“I will let no man steal from my family and live to tell of it!” Murdoch retorted. “I will let no man leave those sworn to my brother’s hand to suffer or starve. I will not see my father’s memory tainted and I will not see injustice endure.” He leaned toward the laird. “I will suffer no such loss for the sake of mere greed.”

The laird looked ill. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I do not have it,” he said quietly.

“But I think you know where it is.”

“I do not.”

“Or where it might be.” Murdoch leaned on the laird’s board with his fists. “I invite you to confide in me, or face the consequences.”

There was real fear in the laird’s eyes for a moment then.

Murdoch caught the merest glimpse of it, before the younger man turned his attention to his correspondence with vigor. He tugged at a piece of vellum trapped beneath Murdoch’s fist and spoke quickly. “I regret that I can do nothing to aid you in this quest.”

“Perhaps you might recall some detail in time,” Murdoch said softly. “I will wait. I can be a most patient man.”

The laird looked unconvinced of that. “I think it unlikely, sir, that I shall have such a recollection. So far as I know, the relic is in your family’s care.” The laird took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “And if there is a thief in your brother’s holding, Murdoch Seton, I cannot be expected to answer for his crimes.”

“I expect you only to answer for your own, sir, as all men must do.”

Murdoch saw anger flash in the laird’s eyes, but he spun to leave. There was nothing to be gained here, not so long as the laird believed he could deny all knowledge of the theft and its location. But Murdoch knew when a man obscured the truth, as this one did, and he had no intention of returning to Duncan without his rightful prize.

Already Murdoch began to form a plan of how he might encourage the laird’s memory. It was bold and risky, and he was already enamored of it.

Murdoch opened the door to a flurry of skirts and spied the lady Isabella fleeing.

She had listened.

She might know more than her brother would admit. This alluring maiden with her potent curiosity might be a useful ally to him.

Though that was not the sole reason Murdoch gave chase.

* * *

Isabella heard Murdoch’s determined steps crossing the floor of Alexander’s chamber too late to hide herself. She turned to flee down the stairs to the hall, knowing Murdoch would see her, but hoping he would not pursue her.

Even as she had the thought, she knew it to be a futile hope. A man so filled with determination as Murdoch would not surrender a chase simply because she ran.

Isabella heard his tread behind her on the stairs, even as she raced for the second floor. If she could but get inside the chamber she shared with her sisters, she could bolt the door against him. She reached the second floor landing, but did not imagine she was safe. She heard that he again took the stairs several at a time, his height giving him an advantage. She lunged for the door to the chamber.

Isabella had just depressed the latch when Murdoch snatched her up from behind. She might have screamed, but he wrapped one arm around her, trapping her arms against her body, and the other over her mouth.

Isabella struggled, but managed to make no difference in her situation. His audacity was outrageous! He held her captive against his body and, in one fluid motion, carried her into her own chamber. He shut the door behind them with his weight and leaned back against it as Isabella struggled. Her fury redoubled that he should assault her in her own home.

His grip upon her was strong and sure, but he did not hurt her. Isabella was keenly aware of his strength—and her comparative weakness. He was muscled and masculine, the hard power of his body making her tingle with unwelcome awareness.

“If you scream,” he murmured in her ear, his breath making her shiver. “It will be your reputation that suffers, not mine.”

Isabella seethed at the truth of that. She wanted to kick him in a place that would ensure he treated her with more respect. He wrapped one leg around her knees, as if he anticipated her intent as soon as she had the thought.

“I want only to know what you know,” he continued quietly.

She shook her head, for she knew nothing of any disappearing relics.

“Another liar in this nest,” he muttered and she struggled against him with new vigor.

Her outrage seemed to intrigue him. “Pledge that you will not scream or run,” he murmured. “I would make a wager with you, Lady Isabella.”

Isabella struggled with force.

He chuckled softly. “Pledge your silence and I will release you.”

That alone was worth the bargain. Isabella nodded and Murdoch released her as promised, remaining with his back against the door and his arms folded across his chest. Isabella put distance between them, trying to wipe the taste of his leather gloves from her mouth. He watched her with obvious amusement.

And something else, something that heated his gaze and made her heart skip.

Isabella looked around the chamber, but she knew the only other possibility for escape was the window.

And it was a long drop to the ground.

There was nary a weapon to be had either, for Isabella did not count her eating knife or any of the embroidery needles as suitably lethal. She glanced back to find Murdoch smiling at her, as if he had followed her thoughts.

She straightened and spoke with low heat. “How dare you come here and insult my family...”

“I dare because a crime has been committed,” he said, interrupting her smoothly. “I am not the first, and I will not be the last.”

“My brother is not a thief,” she insisted.

He arched a dark brow. “He is a liar.”

Isabella looked away, for she had the same sense. She had heard it in Alexander’s voice, in the tone of his replies. What did he know of this trouble?

Murdoch did not miss that hint of her thoughts, and Isabella could have cursed the man for being so observant. In a heartbeat, he was directly before her, his fingertips beneath her chin. He compelled her to meet his gaze, even as she felt his heat and smelled his skin. An unfamiliar but beguiling heat unfurled in Isabella, an awareness that she stood within a hand span of an attractive—if annoying—man.

“Who does Alexander protect?” Murdoch whispered even as Isabella’s heart raced.

“You should not be in this chamber,” she said. “You should not touch me. You should not...”

Murdoch slid his thumb over her lips, the caress silencing Isabella instantly. “I am not interested in what I should do.” Isabella swallowed and he watched her avidly, a heat dawning in his eyes. “I will go when some soul tells me the truth. Why not you?”

Isabella gritted her teeth and glared at him, moving away from the press of his thumb. “I cannot tell you a truth I do not know.”

“Yet,” he said, biting off the word. “I will make you another wager, Lady Isabella. Tell me what you learn, find the thief or the relic, and I shall leave your brother and his holding alone.”

“You will leave now at any rate.”

Murdoch smiled and she yearned to damage his confidence.

“I have nothing to tell you of my brother or my family, and indeed, you go too far in expecting that I take any such wager. I will not betray my own kin!”

“Despite my brother’s loss?” He frowned and she had the sense that he was driven by a need to correct a wrong. “Despite your own curiosity?” He arched a brow and Isabella looked away.

“Nothing says my brother is responsible,” she said, her words falling in haste. “You have no true evidence.”

“Save the fact that the relic was discovered to be missing immediately after Ross Lammergeier visited Seton Manor.” Murdoch’s voice turned husky and his eyes were bright.

And even though she could make no sense of his assertion, Isabella knew Murdoch was utterly convinced of its truth.

Chapter Two

“Ross? At your brother’s home?” Isabella could make no sense of this. “But why?”

“He was in the service of the Earl of Buchan a year past, was he not?”

Isabella caught her breath and looked away.

“How much do you know about your brother, Ross, my lady—and his intent?”

Isabella was seventh-born of her eight siblings, while Ross was fifth. Both of her older brothers, Malcolm and Ross, had left Kinfairlie after Alexander’s wedding. Ross had been home at the Yule just recently passed. She knew he had argued with Alexander and left quietly, but she did not know the source of their argument.

Was this it?

She realized that Murdoch was watching her avidly and tried to hide her suspicions, even guessing it was too late. “Coincidence!” she protested. “You have no proof. The thief could be anyone! Why suspect my kin?”

A fleeting smile touched his firm lips and Isabella could not help but watch. Murdoch counted off the reasons on his fingers even as he strode around her. His voice was beguiling in itself, deep and quiet, compelling in a way that made Isabella’s mouth go dry. “Because it was bought from your uncle in the first place. Because it would not be unlikely for any man to regret the surrender of a successful venture, and later wish to return to it. Because it disappeared at the same time your brother Ross was in our hall.”

Each step he took compelled Isabella to take a quarter turn, in order to ensure that she could see his face. She watched him keenly, waiting for some hint of doubt but there was none. His brow was dark, his gaze intent. He was utterly convinced that he was right.

But was he?

She knew that Alexander had lied.

Why?

Would it be so fearsome to make a wager with this knight?

It might, in fact, be right to do so.

As she thought, he continued in that melodic low tone. “Because the easiest place to find relics to sell would be to collect them from one’s former clients. Because your kin have long been said to be thieves, as well as merchants of religious relics.”

Murdoch stopped directly before her and touched his thumb. “Because the relic at Seton Manor was secured in a locked treasury with no less than three guards. Its disappearance was nearly an impossible feat—for mere mortals. Who better to spirit it away than the sorcerors the Lammergeier are reputed to be?”

Isabella shook her head. “Innuendo, not fact.”

“Fact will come.”

“No.” Isabella frowned. “Alexander would not do this thing.” She held up a finger when Murdoch might have protested. “And Alexander would dispatch no other man to do it in his stead. I know my brother.”

“You know he lies, too.” Murdoch’s gaze never swerved from her when she swallowed. Isabella nodded. “What about Ross?”

Isabella sighed and bit her lip. “I do not know.”

“Has he been home?”

“He was here at the Yule.” She saw the gleam of satisfaction in Murdoch’s eyes and hastened to defend her brother. “I do not know where the relic is!”

“I wager you have the wits to find out.”

His words reminded Isabella of his comment to Alexander. She regarded him warily. “What will you do?”

His smile flashed, making him look like an unpredictable rogue. “I shall prompt your brother’s memory.”

“But how?”

“You shall see.”

Isabella folded her arms across her chest. “Even if I did seek the truth, nothing says I will confide any such discovery in you.”

Murdoch’s eyes twinkled with sudden vigor. “Then I shall have to win you to my cause, my Isabella,” he whispered, his voice a throaty purr.

“I am not your...”

Before she could finish, Murdoch closed the distance between them, bent and captured her lips with his own.

* * *

Murdoch kissed Isabella because he could not have done otherwise.

It was true he had initially thought it would be useful to win her favor. A curious maiden within Kinfairlie’s walls could aid greatly in his quest for the truth. But with each passing moment in her company, the notion of an alliance grew in appeal because of the lady herself. He liked the fire in her eyes, the way she defended her family, her honesty in admitting that she also believed her brother had not been entirely truthful. He liked that she was keen of wit, that she was unafraid of the truth and suspected that combination would be good at unearthing it.

Isabella was fearless and outspoken, curious and beautiful. Had it been another woman who might have become his chosen spy, Murdoch might not have been so determined to win her agreement with a kiss.

Isabella was as sweet as he had anticipated and more unfamiliar with this manner of caress than he had thought. She caught her breath and turned to stone at the first touch of his lips to hers. Her surprise made him want to give her pleasure as well as taking a token. It would be a fair trade, he thought.

But when Murdoch moved his mouth against hers, persuading her to join him, her reaction made him forget such rationale. Isabella surprised him yet again. She shivered and sighed. Her eyes closed and her lips parted, as if she were unable to resist him, and her hands landed on his shoulders.

She surrendered. With no negotiation and no price. It was a heady choice on her part, and one that made her irresistible.

Murdoch deepened his kiss at this encouragement, savoring how she gasped. When she opened her mouth to him and tentatively kissed him back, she lit a fire within him that he feared would not be sated with a single kiss.

Then he did not care.

He simply wanted more of whatever Isabella chose to give.

Murdoch bracketed her waist in his hands, then pulled her against him. His pulse thundered when she leaned closer, angling her head so that he could kiss her even more deeply.

Isabella’s trust pierced him. Her kiss snared him, as surely as the flash of her eyes had ensured his interest. He ran his hand up her back, savoring the slender strength of her. She was mortal, and yet, she enchanted him as surely as the Elphine Queen—but with honesty, not guile. He felt invigorated as he once had been—as he had not been in so long that he scarce remembered it.

Perhaps there was hope for him in this mortal realm. Perhaps the lady Isabella, with her curiosity and her direct speech, held the key to his future.

Murdoch wanted very much to know.

He might have taken more than he should have done, but Isabella suddenly planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

“Anthony!” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. Her lips were swollen from his kiss and her cheeks flushed, her hair coming free of her braid. She looked disheveled and welcoming and for a moment, he did not care what had troubled her.

Yet sure enough, the sound of limping footsteps carried from the stairs to the great hall. Isabella’s reaction made Murdoch fear for her welfare should their kiss be discovered. Who knew how the laird treated his sisters?

He could not see her condemned.

“Fear not,” he whispered, running his fingertips over her cheek. “I will not betray you, my Isabella.”

She seemed surprised by this, but her smile was all the sweeter for its delay. Murdoch held her gaze for a potent moment, then strode silently to the door. He listened, then opened it swiftly and stepped into the hall. The castellan was yet out of sight. He winked at Isabella, who held her hands to her lips as if regretting what she had done.

Murdoch had no regrets. He closed the door with care, striding onward as if he had just left the laird’s chamber. The castellan came into sight, then halted on the stairs in surprise, two mugs of ale in his hands.

“It seems I am to be cast from the gates without hospitality,” Murdoch said to the older man, deliberately letting his tone turn impatient. He lifted a mug from the astonished man’s grasp, drained half of it, then returned it. “But I thank you for the thought.”

Murdoch swept past the sputtering castellan, his thoughts spinning. His plan to remain near Kinfairlie and haunt the laird had grown far more enticing, given the splendor of Isabella’s kiss.

* * *

Finvarra, king of Ireland’s Daoine Sidhe, and the Elphine Queen of Scotland met every year at winter’s darkness to play chess. Originally, they had contested ownership of a verdant isle between Ireland and Scotland, and had agreed to cede the isle to whichever of them won two of three matches.

Finvarra won the first.

The Elphine Queen won the second.

When Finvarra won the third match, he found himself unwilling to lose the companionship of his opponent. It was true that he had a Fae queen of his own in Una, and the most beauteous woman in any realm at that. But the Elphine Queen possessed more than mere beauty. She showed a cleverness more like his own—as well as a similar appetite for passion. While Una was possessive and desiring of his attention, the Elphine Queen liked to match wits with Finvarra. He liked her laughter, he adored the flash of her eyes, and he lusted for more.

His suggestion that they play for best of nine was accepted with such speed that Finvarra was encouraged. He could not have been the only one thinking of alliances of a most earthy kind. He was so encouraged that he did something he never did.

He let her win.

It had been the Elphine Queen who had been triumphant after nine matches. She had immediately leaned across the board, displaying the majesty of her breasts to Finvarra and fluttering her dark wings as she insisted ’twas only fair that she should be as gracious in triumph as he had been.

They played then for best of twenty-one.

By this point, neither of them knew for certain how many times they had met or who held the upper hand. Both of them had forgotten the contested isle. There were scribes in the ranks of their households who scrupulously recorded the outcome of each match, but neither consulted the records. Finvarra was more concerned in seeing what the Elphine Queen wore each year, how she touched his hand, how she smiled at him across the board. Their annual contest had become a matter of some anticipation.

Inevitably, they spoke of other matters, knowing that they were observed but not necessarily overheard, as their respective courts watched the game from a distance. Inevitably, their annual meeting had become a diplomatic affair between their two courts and a period for negotiation by minions of border disputes. There was merriment and music and magic, feasting and dancing, hurling and hunting.

This time, the Elphine Queen chose Kinfairlie’s forest, a voyage of some distance for Finvarra and one that prompted his curiosity about her doings. They met at a clearing in the midst of the woods, the bare branches of the trees arching overhead like a vaulted roof. Stars glittered between the branches and the snow sparkled on the ground. The clearing was alight with small flying Fae from both courts. The moon was at first quarter, a silver wedge riding high above.

The board itself was a piece of enchantment. Finvarra’s courtiers were charged with collecting the pieces. They snared two dozen small creatures—mice and moles, sparrows and finches, newts and toads—leaving Finvarra himself to enchant each into the piece he deemed it should be. It was not uncommon for small Fae to be pressed into service as well, particularly as queens. Finvarra could not accept an ugly queen, even upon a game board. Snared in his glamour, made to resemble the pieces they were assigned, the enchanted creatures moved upon the board as directed by the players.

By the time the pair sat down to play, Finvarra had collected a great deal of gossip about the Elphine Queen—enough to feed his curiosity further. “Why here?” he asked as she arranged her skirts.

The Elphine Queen smiled but did not answer him directly. “You lost one,” she said, as she touched her queen. The delicate Fae fluttered her green wings and sparkled as she moved to the more strategic position indicated. She smiled at Finvarra as she took her new pose.

“One what?” Finvarra asked, stroking his dark beard as he considered his move. He knew precisely what the Elphine Queen meant, for she had a habit of tracking his conquests, but he would compel her to speak aloud.

“One mortal woman.” The Elphine Queen’s dark eyes sparkled as she leaned across the board to taunt him. “That Rosamunde with the red hair. I thought you meant to snare her forever.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I did not think you liked to lose.”

Finvarra shrugged, pretending to be less troubled by the incident than he was. It still irked him that Rosamunde’s mortal lover had bested him. It vexed him even more that Padraig had only been able to do as much because of the assistance of Finvarra’s own wife. Una’s jealousy grew tedious. Even now, he was aware of her gaze upon him, filled with suspicion, as well.

“I suppose it was not meant to be,” he said mildly.

The Elphine Queen laughed. “I suppose you did not care for her after all, then.”

Finvarra indicated a knight on the board. The sparrow enchanted to take that form touched his thistle spurs to the frog who had become his steed. The aggressive move prompted the Elphine Queen to sit up and survey the board with glittering eyes.

Served her right. He had a mere moment to gloat before the Elphine Queen gave him an intent glance.

“Your Rosamunde’s family possesses this holding.”

Finvarra glanced up, unable to fully hide his surprise.

The Elphine Queen nodded. “Oh yes. Rosamunde Lammergeier is as beloved of the current laird of Kinfairlie and his siblings as she might have been by you.”

Finvarra caught his breath. He had some difficulty in choosing his next move “And so you chose this site to taunt me?”

The Elphine Queen laughed. “I chose this site to teach you.”

Finvarra hid his annoyance with an effort. That this far younger Fae imagined she could grant him any instruction in sorcery was nonsense. He chose in that moment to ensure that whatever lesson she strove to grant to him would end in failure.

“Indeed?” he asked mildly.

“Indeed,” she agreed with satisfaction. “I mean to claim a mortal lover as my own, but, unlike you, I have left nothing to chance. He will be mine by the next moon.”

Finvarra glanced up. “You cannot know that for certain.”

“Can I not?” She leaned close to whisper. “I did not release him until he was fully marked. I had ensured his willing return.”

Finvarra could not help but scoff at this bravado. “What of the old charm? What if he performs three selfless deeds? You will have to surrender him if he fulfills the ancient terms.”

“He will have no chance.”

Her conviction was ludicrous and Finvarra had no patience with it. “You should find out for certain where your mortal’s heart lies before you make such a claim.”

The Elphine Queen laughed. “I know precisely where it is.” She reached into the glittering expanse of her embroidered skirts and set a crystal orb beside the board.

Within it pulsed a blood red heart.

It was not truly the man’s heart, Finvarra knew as much, for a mortal man would have died without it. It was a spell, a symbol of the magic which held this man’s heart in thrall to the Elphine Queen. His actual heart was captive, as surely as this one appeared to be.

“I lost a mortal myself,” she hissed. “A decade ago. I resolved then that I would never lose another.” She tapped the orb with a fingertip. “So captured, the heart sickens and dies within one moon.”

Despite himself, Finvarra was impressed by the elegance of her sorcery. Her prize was both beautiful and grotesque, the heart pulsing wetly within the orb of smooth crystal. He could see the darkness on one side of the beating organ, could fairly see the stain growing before his own eyes. He met her gaze.

“I would make him one of us. He has the tattoos and I have his heart.” She laughed lightly. “He wished to go home again. He meant forever, but that was not my plan.”

“You might kill him.”

She shrugged. “Dead or Fae, he will be mine.”

“And where is the sport in that? If your spell cannot be defeated, what is the point?” Finvarra decided that he would side with this mortal man, and that he would let the Elphine Queen win the chess game. It would lull her into complacency. “Let him choose,” he urged as he moved a piece.

“But I must win!”

“Mortals insist that love is measured by the return of the desired one.”

The Elphine Queen leaned across the table. “Did you let Rosamunde leave by choice then?” She moved another piece when he winced.

“The victory will be sweeter if he surrenders willingly to you.”

Finvarra indicated that his castle should move, sending it along the board. “Check.”

The Elphine Queen straightened and scanned the board, her gaze moving quickly as she sought a solution. He knew the moment she saw it. She smiled as she moved her queen. “Checkmate.”

Finvarra ceded the defeat he had foreseen.

For now.

* * *

Kinfairlie’s keep was a square tower of modest size. At its heart was the great hall, where the laird entertained his guests and his household, and all gathered in the evenings. There were two fireplaces at either side of that chamber, the better to warm the occupants. One portal led to the bailey and the gates, while the other gave access to the kitchens and pantries and storerooms.

Stairs rose from the hall to the upper floors of the tower. There were two chambers on the second floor, the larger one shared by the remaining unwed daughters of the house. That there were three sisters now instead of five left much more room for each. More than two years had passed since Madeline and Vivienne had married, and two Yules since Alexander had wed as well. Annelise at nineteen was the oldest of the unwed sisters. Isabella was next, and Elizabeth, a mere fifteen summers of age, the youngest of the three.

The smaller room on that second floor had once been shared by Isabella’s brothers. Since the demise of their parents, Alexander had become laird and now occupied the solar with his wife, Eleanor. Malcolm and Ross, the younger of the brothers but both older than Isabella, had left Kinfairlie after Alexander’s nuptials. Malcolm was heir to Ravensmuir, the ruined sister estate of Kinfairlie, but had surrendered the seal to Alexander and left to seek his fortune. Ross had pledged his blade to the Earl of Buchan and also departed. The room the boys had shared now stood empty and unused.

The solar was on the third floor, along with the small chamber where Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, kept his ledgers. There was only one floor above that, filled by a single room with a sloping roof that had become the treasury when Eleanor’s inheritance had been delivered to Kinfairlie.

After Murdoch’s departure, Isabella went to the kitchens to make her posset for Eleanor. She gave every appearance of being absorbed by her labor as she ground herbs in the pestle, but in truth, she was reliving Murdoch’s kiss.

Still her lips burned. Still she tingled. Still her heart had not entirely slowed its pace. Indeed, she had been lost—with just a single kiss. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of a first kiss that had made it so potent. Many sensations dulled with repetition. In addition, she had been surprised by his caress, which could have heightened her reaction.

Or was it Murdoch himself?

There was only one way to discover the truth. The very idea of seeing Murdoch again, of kissing Murdoch again, filled Isabella with agitation of a most pleasurable kind.

Perhaps Murdoch intrigued her because he was so different from the other men she knew. He was a knight and one with rare charisma, the combination perhaps of his vividly blue eyes, his powerful grace, his fleeting smile. He was audacious and bold, cavalier in a way that made her heart skip. That he would travel so far to ensure both justice and his brother’s welfare was the stuff of tales.

Aye, it might be novelty that intrigued Isabella.

She recalled the way Murdoch had blown her a kiss. He had a flair that was uncommon, that was for certain. She closed her eyes and felt his strong arms locked around her, the heat of his words against her ear. She shivered, but not out of cold.

His family’s relic was gone and it had been the hand of the Magdalene.

This was no small token lost. Isabella recalled how Tynan had let them look upon that very relic and touch it, but only once when they were small. The bones of the saint’s hand had been placed in a silver case shaped like a woman’s forearm, studded with jewels. It looked almost like a glove, but on the underside, there were panels of clear quartz that let one see the yellowed bones. The fingers were outspread and Tynan had said that it was laid upon the sick to heal them.

Could it heal the sick? Isabella had always wanted to know. She recalled asking Tynan if it were genuine and being chided by her mother for such impertinence.

Her aunt Rosamunde had laughed.

And Isabella could recall the shadows that had clouded Tynan’s gaze.

This was why his family trade had troubled him so. Her honest uncle had not been able to vouch with certainty for the relics the Lammergeier had traded, bought and sold. Isabella knew that Tynan had not been able to live with the possibility that any item was less than its repute or that he could be—however unwittingly—participating in a deception.

Which was why he had needed to be rid of the entire store of relics.

It was the one issue over which Tynan and Rosamunde had disagreed. Indeed, the division began earlier in the family than that. Avery, Isabella’s great-grandfather, had had two sons, Merlyn and Gawain, as different in nature as night and day. Merlyn had abhorred his father’s trade and his son, Tynan, shared his view. Gawain, in contrast, had been untroubled by any question of authenticity in the relics he bought and sold, and his adopted daughter, Rosamunde, had come to share his perspective.

Did the dispute continue? Did one of her own siblings secretly wish to continue the ancient family trade, against Tynan and Alexander’s wishes?

Why had Tynan not simply tested the power of the relics, the way one would test the healing powers of an herb? Isabella felt a new curiosity about the relics that had once been housed at Ravensmuir, and a particular desire to see the hand of the Magdalene again.

What did Ross know of Seton Manor and its relic? Had he truly visited there with the earl? What had he and Alexander argued about at the Yule? Ross had departed early, without saying farewell to any of them, and Alexander was displeased to even hear his younger brother’s name.

Isabella pursed her lips and ground the herbs with care, reflecting upon the similarities between Alexander and Tynan. While Isabella did not doubt that Alexander was innocent in any theft of the relics sold at Ravensmuir, it was clear to her that he had not been surprised by the knight’s accusation.

Alexander knew something.

And he would never share his knowledge willingly. Truly, Alexander had become so tedious since assuming the lairdship. He was consumed with responsibility and duty, when once he had been the troublemaker in the family. He kept all to himself, especially now that Eleanor was so ill. Where would he secure any secrets? Isabella got no further before Elizabeth appeared suddenly beside her.

“So?” Elizabeth demanded, fairly dancing in her excitement. “Did you see him? Do you know why he came to Kinfairlie?”

For once, Isabella was not inclined to confide in her sister. She felt protective of Murdoch and his secret and realized Alexander would not be the only one in this keep to hide knowledge.

“Who?” Isabella asked, feigning innocence.

Elizabeth poked her. “You know who! The knight! Is he not most handsome?”

“He looks hale enough.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “More than hale. He is bold and brave. I can tell by one glimpse of him. He walked ahead of Anthony in his desire to see Alexander. This is a man who sees matters resolved.” Elizabeth shivered with delight. “Imagine what tales he might tell.”

“I cannot guess.”

“Nonsense! What did you learn of him?”

“Me?”

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the table beside Isabella, fixing her sister with a stern look. “You know everything that occurs in this keep. And you did not come down to the hall after me.” She grimaced. “I should have remained in our chamber, but I had been sure he would come into the hall. What did you hear?”

“I went to fetch the herbs...”

“No. I was watching for you.” Elizabeth leaned closer, conviction in her gaze. “You listened. You know why he came. Tell me!” Isabella averted her own gaze, feigning preoccupation in her herbs. “Did he come for a bride? Which one of us? What did Alexander say?”

“I do not know,” Isabella said. On one hand, she did not wish to lie to her sister. On the other, it would be unkind to encourage any idea that Murdoch had arrived to seek a wife. She knew her sister well enough that she realized she would not dissuade Elizabeth of that notion without telling her the truth.

And the truth was Murdoch’s to share—or not.

Elizabeth pouted prettily. “If you do not tell me, then I will tell Alexander what you did.”

“I did nothing!”

“You listened. He will believe me and he will not be pleased.”

“You are right,” she conceded, trying to deflect Elizabeth’s interest in another way. “I did try to listen.”

“Ha!”

“But it seemed unfair to mention as much because I heard nothing.”

Elizabeth was incredulous. “Nothing?”

Isabella shrugged. “They dropped their voices too low for me to hear.” She smiled at her sister. “I tried, but it was to no avail.” She grimaced. “Then I heard Moira so I had to leave in haste, in case she came out of the solar and caught me there.”

“Secrets!” Elizabeth said with satisfaction, surveying the bustle of activity in the kitchens. “Negotiations, just as I suspected.”

“You cannot be certain,” Isabella said. “It could have been another matter they discussed.”

“What other matter? He would have come to Alexander’s courts, had he a complaint, and any less delicate matter would have been discussed in the hall.” She brightened at a thought. “Perhaps I can get the truth from Alexander.”

“That is a good idea,” Isabella agreed mildly. “Perhaps you can. He does favor you.”

Elizabeth nodded. “And he has no right to keep the truth from us, not if he is arranging our nuptials.” Her eyes narrowed. “He did as much before with Madeline and Vivienne.”

“But he pledged not to do so again.”

Elizabeth’s lips twisted. “It has been too long and he has been preoccupied of late.”

“Eleanor’s condition gives him concern...”

“It is more than that,” Elizabeth insisted. “Alexander has a secret and I can guess what it is. I mean to know what fate he has chosen for us.” Elizabeth hastened away with purpose in her step.

Isabella heated the milk for Eleanor’s posset and considered what her sister had said. Alexander had been distracted of late, and until this day, Isabella had attributed it to concern over Eleanor’s condition. What if there was more at root? Perhaps Alexander knew of the thefts but did not know who was responsible, for he did naught to set the matter to rights. He could not know for certain that Ross was involved, for she knew that he would not spare his brother for a crime. Alexander’s concern with justice meant that he would never have been able to stand aside while a crime continued.

It made sense that the mystery was established but its solution was not.

Isabella had to find a way to get into Alexander’s chamber without being observed. There he kept his ledgers and his correspondence, and there she would find any evidence that had been committed to vellum.

For the simple fact was that if Isabella could discover some detail of import to Murdoch, if she could help him to see his family’s relic restored or even tell him that it would not be found at Kinfairlie, she would have cause to seek him out.

It was all in the interest of ensuring justice, of course.

And surely, it was the notion of sneaking into Alexander’s chamber that made her heart skip—not the prospect of seeing Murdoch once more.

Chapter Three

“You are suspicious,” Stewart said when they had ridden clear of Kinfairlie’s village. “Does that mean you have found the relic, or its location?”

Murdoch shook his head, wondering what the older man would think of his plan. “No, but I think the laird knows more than he would tell. Look at his holding.”

“It is affluent and appears to be well-administered.”

“But what is the source of his coin?” Murdoch asked. “The mill is small. There is no port. There are no bridges or main roads or tolls. There are few goats or pigs, enough for the villagers but not enough to sell. He cannot be selling wool fleeces, for there are not enough sheep. The fields are well tended, but there cannot be sufficient yield to sell, not with so many souls in the keep and village to be fed. There is no religious institution.”

There was only one road that approached Kinfairlie, and it led from the village through a large forest, winding like a ribbon through the shadows. Stewart and Murdoch had been accompanied by two squires on their trip south, at Duncan’s insistence, but on this day, they had left Gavin and Hamish hidden in the forest.

Stewart looked around with a frown. “Ravensmuir?” he suggested, naming the once powerful holding that was linked to Kinfairlie.

“Lies in ruins,” Murdoch said, gesturing to the distant shadow of that keep. It perched on the lip of the coast like a specter in the distance, apparently tumbling into the sea. “And all the land between here and there lies unplowed.” He leaned closer to the older man. “Whence comes his coin, Stewart? How can the children in his village be so plump and the garb of all be so well tended?”

Stewart pursed his lips. “They are said to breed horses, fine black stallions.”

“How many can there be to sell each year? With but one glimpse, I saw that his hall was full of fighting men—and mercenaries work for hard coin.” Murdoch sighed, discontent with the evidence before his eyes.

“He could have married a woman of means.”

“Or he could have secretly returned to his family’s ancient trade, with the assistance of his brother.”

“I will wager then that your interview with him did not progress so well,” Stewart said.

“He said it was not his concern, that so far as he knew the relic remained in my family’s possession.” Murdoch slanted a glance at his companion, knowing that this next comment would not be well-received. “He said if there was a thief at Seton Manor, it was not his concern.”

“Villain!” Stewart said with heat. “To turn the accusation back on the accuser is evasive at best. I will guess that is not the whole of it.”

“He lies.” Murdoch scanned the silhouetted trees ahead, seeking some sign of the boys. The trees of the forest were barren in the winter light, but the shadows were very dark.

Too dark.

The wind had turned colder, as well.

When he saw the shadows light with golden fireflies, Murdoch felt dread slither down his spine.

They were not fireflies, not in January. He feared he knew what they were.

“His sister agrees with me,” he said to Stewart, fighting his dismay.

“His sister?”

“The maiden at the window. The curious one.”

Stewart frowned. “She is young, a damsel of age to wed.”

“Indeed, she is. I am more concerned that she is curious, and that she lives within Kinfairlie’s keep.”

Stewart eyed Murdoch. “Did you encourage any notion she had of your intentions?”

Murdoch made light of the matter, for he was not prepared to confide in Stewart. “I but stole a kiss, when the opportunity presented itself. She is welcome to make whatsoever conclusions she desires.”

Stewart shook his head with force. “No, this is a matter between men. Leave the maiden be, for no good can come of it. This is not the daughter of a miller or an ale maker, one who has welcomed any number of men with her affections and will not suffer for any repercussions...”

Murdoch silenced the older man with a glance. “I will do whatsoever is necessary to see Duncan’s rightful property returned. Her brother lies so openly that even she acknowledges it.”

Stewart was not convinced. “I do not like that you involve her. Great ill could come to her, should her brother learn that she acts against him in his own home. What did you ask her to do?”

“I made her a wager, that should she discover the truth or the relic, I should leave her brother’s holding.” Murdoch smiled, for it was true. “It is much the same offer I made to the laird.”

“I would wager that he thought you already intended to leave.”

Murdoch grinned. “One cannot answer for a man’s assumptions.”

Stewart exhaled noisily, his disapproval clear. “What of those of a maiden? One kiss is little enough, but you would be wise to leave the matter at that.”

“She admitted already to me that her brother Ross had been here at the Yule.”

“So, he did leave the service of the Earl of Buchan. Where did he go?”

“It matters not if he left his spoils here.”

“You have no proof, lad. This is not a matter that can be resolved with recklessness...”

“Ah, but, Stewart, I believe it is. I have a plan to encourage the laird’s memory,” Murdoch said as they approached the forest. “Should it succeed, the maiden need do nothing.”

Stewart was still wary. “What plan is this?”

“He lies. I believe he needs encouragement to share what he knows. Whether he is himself guilty or defends another is of no import.”

“And how will you encourage his confidence?”

“We give every appearance of leaving on this day, but we will not. We will remain hidden in Kinfairlie’s forest, and we will guard the road to the keep. We will relieve any travelers upon this road of their valuables and read any messages they bear, although we shall ensure that none are injured.”

“How does theft encourage the return of stolen goods?” Stewart demanded.

“Is it theft if we donate all we gain to the people of Kinfairlie? I see it as alms or perhaps a loan.”

Stewart shook his head. “The laird will not see it such. He will see you hunted and maimed for any such crime...”

“And he will have to catch me first,” Murdoch said, his tone hard. “Are you with me in this, Stewart, or would you return to Seton Manor with nothing to show for your quest?”

“You were never so reckless before.” Stewart looked hard at Murdoch. “Where were you, lad? Why did you not return home? It is clear that you could not have had a wound like that the earl insisted you had sustained, for it would have lamed you had you survived. When did you become a man so enamored of falsehood and deceit?”

“I will not speak of it, Stewart.”

“Perhaps it is best you did not see your father again,” the older man muttered. “It would have killed him to have seen his favored son become an untrustworthy rogue.”

Murdoch eyed those fireflies and realized they were more numerous than he had imagined. Their golden light reflected on the snow, like a thousand flames on a thousand candles. The Elphine Queen had followed him.

What would she demand of him?

How much time did he have?

He realized that Stewart yet awaited his answer. “I will see Duncan’s property restored, if it is the last deed I do. Surely that vow has merit to you?”

“I do not like it.” The older man exhaled mightily, looking troubled. He shook a finger at Murdoch. “No one shall be injured. No blood shall be shed, be it of man or horse. And if any deed must be done that is illegal, the boys shall not lift a hand to do it. You know that they would do any deed for you. I would have your pledge that you will not ask that of them.”

“I will not.” Murdoch agreed. “Then, we are in agreement.”

“No,” Stewart said with vigor. “We are not in agreement. I merely cede to your command as I see that you will not be swayed. It is possible that I can save you from your own folly, and truly, your father would have wished me to attempt as much.” He sighed. “I know not what I shall tell the boys of this, for they have the notion that knighthood is filled with honor, not banditry.”

“Do they not know the merit of the greater good?” Murdoch asked, his tone sharp.

Stewart considered him anew. “Where were you? What so embittered the honorable man I once knew?”

“I will not speak of it,” Murdoch said again. He felt the older man studying him, so gestured to the forest and lightened his tone. Though he was certain of what his companion would say, he had to ask. “How strange there should be fireflies in January. Perhaps this is evidence of the sorcery said to be practiced by the Lammergeier family.”

Stewart looked at the forest, then back at Murdoch. The change in his expression said more than his words. He could not see them. They were Fae. “Truly you have need of a meal, my lord. There are no fireflies in winter.”

“What of the lights?”

“I see no lights. Time it is to have some bread in our bellies, that is what I see. Where are those boys? Hamish! Gavin!” Stewart rode onward, shouting when the silhouettes of their two young squires separated from the forest shadows.

Stewart gave orders to the boys before he had even dismounted, sending them in haste to gather a meal and set a fire. They scurried, and Murdoch wondered which of them was more terrified of the gruff older man. Stewart led the way from the path, riding deeper into the forest.

Murdoch followed, a trickle of cold sweat sliding down his back. Kinfairlie and the kiss of Isabella seemed a thousand miles behind him as the fireflies swarmed around him, flying around him with frantic speed. Murdoch swallowed and kept his eyes open. They circled his head in a dizzying blur, their light bright enough to make him wince.

With proximity, the truth was inescapable. They were Fae. Tiny Fae with golden wings, Fae who laughed and chased each other, filling the air with the swish of their wings and the tinkle of their merriment. One landed on his gloved hand and smiled up at him, as if in recognition of a fellow spirit. It knew Murdoch could see it, for it laughed at his horror.

The tiny golden Fae marched toward Murdoch’s cuff, its wings fluttering as it kept its balance. It bent and tugged back the leather, then stabbed a pine needle into his flesh. It laughed before it flew away.

A laugh filled with malice.

Dread coiled in Murdoch’s spine.

He tugged back the cuff of that glove with speed. To his horror, there was a blue swirl on the back of his wrist, like a vine that sprouted upon his skin. It emanated from the point where the pine needle had stabbed him, for there was a single drop of blood there.

The marks were those made by the dwarf, the ones he had not believed to be real.

Murdoch heard a woman’s low laughter.

He recognized that laugh.

He turned and spied the silhouette of the Elphine Queen in the distant shadows of the forest. It could be no other woman, not with those dark wings stretched high over her head, that black hair running over her shoulders like an onyx river, and the dozens of small red sprites fluttering around her.

She had followed him.

She beckoned and he saw the golden glow of her court behind her. He would not willingly step into that place again. Murdoch rode on, striving to ignore her but unable to keep himself from stealing glances her way. He would know her scheme.

Although he could guess it well enough.

When she began to stride toward him, he knew he could not flee. She was beside him in an instant, covering the distance in a blink of an eye.

She ran her cold fingers over his knee, leaving a trail of icicles on his chausses. “Hail, lover,” she murmured. “Well met.”

Murdoch studiously avoided her gaze, knowing that he had been lost the first time because he had looked into her eyes. “I thought our ways had parted,” he managed to whisper.

She laughed. “You offered me any thing in exchange for your return to the mortal realm,” she reminded him. Murdoch would have continued to stare straight ahead, but she pulled something from her skirts. She displayed it to him, and he stared in horror.

It was a crystal orb, as clear as a dewdrop but larger than his fist. And within that clear sphere was a heart, pulsing red with blood. It could have been torn from the breast of a stag, given its size, but it would not have continued to beat as it did. Murdoch could not look away from her prize, so gruesome and yet beautiful as well.

It was then he realized that its beat was precisely in time with that of his own heart.

The Elphine Queen blew on the sphere and it seemed to fill with blowing ash. Or maybe flakes of silver. No, snowflakes. The tiny flakes swirled around the heart and it skipped a beat.

Murdoch felt the lurch in his chest. His skin might have been struck with a thousand needles and pins in that moment, and he looked down to see glittering dust swirling around his body.

When he glanced up, the Elphine Queen turned the orb, displaying the other side of the heart to him. That side of it was dark, as black as a midnight sky. Dead.

“You would kill me! I asked for release, but you would kill me instead.”

She shook her head, apparently fascinated with her gruesome charm. “I gave you release, one moon’s course to revisit the realm you once knew.” She impaled him with a glance. “I would have you choose—this world or mine own. I think I know your true desire. I have hold of your heart, after all.”

She turned as if she would leave him, but Murdoch wanted to know the fullness of the truth. “What do you mean? What will happen to me? What have you done?”

The Elphine Queen glanced over her shoulder. “When the moon is new again, your heart will be as black as mine. What happens to you will be the result of your choice.”

She blew him a kiss but Murdoch had heard sufficient. He gave Zephyr his spurs and charged through the cloud of tiny Fae, scattering them as he rode in pursuit of his companions.

He needed to be with men, with flesh and blood.

For every moment that he could.

* * *

Isabella sat at Kinfairlie’s board that night, toying with her meal. How could she get the key to Alexander’s chamber without him knowing of it?

Alexander behaved as though all was well, though she caught concern in his expression once or twice. He had escorted Eleanor to the board that evening, to the pleasure of the company. Eleanor had more color in her cheeks, though Isabella noticed that she leaned on Alexander more than was her habit. She had lost some weight in recent days, as well. Eleanor laughed as the assembly granted her good wishes, and gestured to Isabella.

“It was Isabella’s posset that allowed me to join you again,” she said, pride in her voice. “Soon her skill will surpass mine in such matters. You shall see.”

“I do not think it will be that soon,” Isabella acknowledged. “But I am glad to have been of assistance.”

Eleanor took her seat, smiling graciously at the three sisters. “Truly, I do not know how I would manage without the skills of all of you. Elizabeth, I thank you for doing the spice inventory for me on this day. It sets my mind at rest to know such chores are done, and so thoroughly.”

Elizabeth blushed to have the attention of the assembly fixed upon her.

“You shall make some man a good wife,” Eleanor continued and Elizabeth shot a triumphant glance at Isabella. “And Annelise, I thank you for playing with Roland on this day, yet again.”

“He is a joy, Eleanor,” the eldest of the unwed sisters said. “I think in truth he entertains me, for his antics are most amusing.”

Moira brought the laird’s son into the hall at that moment and all admired the toddler. Roland tugged free of the maid’s grip and bolted across the floor, visiting the hounds at the hearth before he made a dive for his mother’s lap. Alexander snatched him as he ran past and flipped him upside down, prompting the boy to laugh aloud. Eleanor’s hand rounded over her belly protectively and she shared a smile with her husband.

Alexander must not have confided whatever he knew in his wife, Isabella decided. He was very protective of Eleanor, a trait which Isabella much admired. Eleanor had endured too much sorrow in her life before coming to Kinfairlie, and it was honorable of Alexander to wish to protect her from any upset.

It was also another indication of his character. Alexander would not suffer a thief in his holding, if he could name the villain.

If Isabella could solve the riddle, it would be good for all.

“You are quiet on this night, Isabella,” Annelise noted from her left.

“I fear I did not sleep well last night.” Isabella felt a prick of conscience that she lied. “It must have been the wind.”

“Then why did you snore so very much?” Elizabeth demanded in her usual blunt manner.

“Perhaps you are falling ill,” Annelise suggested with gentle concern. It was in her nature to be thoughtful of others, as well as soft-spoken. She indicated Isabella’s full trencher with a fingertip. “That would explain your lack of appetite, as well.”

“Aye, for we know that you have an uncommon appetite for venison,” Elizabeth declared. “You must be ill to leave such choice morsels as these.” Elizabeth stole three of those most delectable pieces of meat, mischief dancing in her eyes.

On another evening, Isabella would have disputed the matter with her, but on this night, she seized upon the excuse.

“Perhaps you are right,” Isabella said to Annelise. “Perhaps I should retire early. I did wish to finish the embroidery on that hem of Eleanor’s new kirtle.”

“Embroidery instead of dancing?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the likelihood of that. “You would need to be nearly dead to be the first of us to leave the hall.”

Isabella ignored her youngest sister, who showed a new talent in being annoying.

“You might remain but dance less than is your habit,” Annelise suggested with a smile.

Truly, it was a great deal of trouble to tell anything other than the truth!

Isabella was saved from having to fabricate a response for Anthony strode to the high table and bowed before Alexander. “My lord, a messenger has arrived to speak with you.”

“So late?” Alexander said with surprise. “Surely the gates are secured?”

“Indeed, they are, my lord, but this man is known to us. He is of the king’s retinue.” Anthony frowned. “And it seems his arrival has been delayed by an incident.”

The sisters exchanged glances at the change in the castellan’s tone.

Alexander frowned and cast down his napkin. “I will hear his message now.”

Anthony turned and beckoned. The hall fell silent as a man strode toward the high table. Strangely, he kept his cloak closed at the front. Isabella could see only his boots beneath the hem as he walked and she could not hear his armor.

Beside her, Elizabeth caught her breath.

“He must be holding it closed from the inside,” Isabella murmured, watching the new arrival keenly.

“Why?” Annelise’s hand landed on Isabella’s arm, her fingers tightening in her uncertainty. “Does he mean to attack Alexander?”

But there was no menace in the man’s pose, and it was the messenger who had come to them before. Isabella shook her head, watching as the arrival bowed low before Alexander, still keeping his cloak closed.

“Do you hide your weapons?” Alexander asked. His tone was light, as if he made a jest, and there was a murmur of agreement from the company.

The man flushed, his gaze darting to the three sisters and Eleanor. “I would not display my nudity before the ladies of your household, my lord.”

Alexander rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have been robbed, my lord, in the forest of Kinfairlie.” The company gasped as one and began to chatter, even though Alexander held up his hand for silence. “I was set upon by bandits, my lord, thieves who seized my horse, my blade and my possessions. They left me with only my cloak and my boots. I walked from the forest, thus my late arrival.”

“Are you injured?” Eleanor demanded.

“I saw their blades, my lady, but was left unscathed. I thank you for your concern.” He cleared his throat. “I believe they were merciful because I gave no fight.”

“Bandits!” Alexander muttered through his teeth. “Did you see their faces? Could you identify them?”

“No, my lord. They had blackened their faces, I believe.”

“How many were there?”

“I am not certain. They came upon me in darkness and were cursed quick about their trade. At least two. Possibly as many as four.” He grimaced. “I apologize, my lord, but I was surprised.”

Alexander swore under his breath. A ripple of concern passed through the hall and those gathered for the meal began to whisper. “And so you might be,” he said. “The road to Kinfairlie is well known to be safe.”

“They gave me a message for you, though, my lord.”

“Indeed? What is it?”

“The one who seemed to be the leader told me to ask whether your memory had been prompted as yet.”

Alexander’s lips tightened and his gaze became determined.

Isabella’s mouth went dry. Murdoch had done this. This was his bold plan. But he would condemn himself for Alexander would not tolerate bandits in his holding. She had to discover the truth.

Yet she had to do it without arousing suspicion.

“He did not surrender his name?” Alexander asked.

“No, my lord. But he had eyes of the most vivid blue that ever I have seen.”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “But you were destined for Kinfairlie with a message, as well, were you not?”

“Aye, my lady. That I was. And though the rogue relieved me of that scroll, I still do recall the message. I was in attendance when the king dictated its contents.”

“What news?” Alexander asked.

“James, King of Scotland, returns to his domain, my lord, with his new bride. He will be at Durham in March and Melrose by early April. The missive granted you safe passage to come and make your obeisance to him there at Melrose. He would receive your pledge of fealty as well as that of every knight in your household.”

“I shall have no need of a grant of safe passage if I can rid our forest of bandits,” Alexander said with a smile. “On the morrow, we shall ride out and rout this renegade from our forests, to ensure the safe passage of all at Kinfairlie.” The company cheered, but Isabella bit her lip.

She could not think of a way to see Murdoch warned.

Alexander spoke to the messenger. “I thank you for your tidings and apologize for what you have endured in my holding. I beg of you to take refreshment with us. Anthony, please find some garb for this loyal servant of the king.”

The company began to chatter again and the musicians began once more to play their lutes. Isabella watched Alexander as he called for more wine, seeing the worry that darkened his brow. As much as Isabella admired her brother’s administration of justice, she could not bear to think of Murdoch being maimed for his attempt to defend his family’s honor.

She excused herself from the board, feigning illness, determined to make each moment count.

* * *

Elizabeth could not believe her eyes.

The messenger came into Alexander’s hall, and all eyes turned upon him. No one, it appeared, noticed the man on the charcoal stallion who rode directly into the hall behind the man. His horse was large and majestic, and there were silver bells tied into his dark mane. The steed tossed his head as he pranced into the hall, seemingly enjoying the musical sound made by his gesture. His nostrils flared and his eyes glowed with a light that was not natural.

The man who rode that beast could have been a king. There were rings on his fingers and a golden crown upon his head. His beard was as dark as ebony and flowed down his chest like a river; his eyes were darker still. He wore a robe of sapphire blue, trimmed with golden embroidery, the like of which Elizabeth had never seen. His boots were made of gilded leather, supple and gleaming. His cloak was as red as blood and trimmed in white ermine.

His retinue were winged, which told Elizabeth who she saw. He was the royalty of the Fae! No less than fifteen attendants milled around his horse, holding the bridle, holding the stirrup, holding the ends of their regent’s cloaks. Not a one of them would have stood as tall as Elizabeth’s waist. They were dressed in green and gold, their wings fluttering so that they seemed to shimmer in place.

Elizabeth knew it was folly to stare at a Fae of such importance and she dropped her gaze to her trencher, pretending that she could not see him.

Far behind her, she heard a familiar hiss. “Kings and villains, rogues and thanes; all will come to thieve again. They take the spoils not theirs to claim, they steal and snatch, then leave again. Gold and silver, gems and jewels, do these intruders think us fools?”

Darg! Elizabeth had always been the only one who could see the spriggan, but she had not caught a glimpse of this small fairy in years. She spun now to look, but could not discern the spriggan in the darkness.

Darg had haunted Ravensmuir once and then Kinfairlie, but had been absent since Rosamunde and Tynan had been lost in the collapse of the caverns beneath Ravensmuir. Darg had not even appeared in the hall when Rosamunde had visited Kinfairlie and relieved the family’s fears for her survival. During that visit, Rosamunde had confirmed Tynan’s death and revealed her newfound love for her old friend and partner, Padraig. There had been no sign of the spriggan and Elizabeth had feared that Darg had been lost with Tynan.

But Darg was back.

And Darg did not like this fellow Fae.

Elizabeth turned back just as the Fae king dismounted and the messenger shared his tale. The king strode toward the high table, taking his time and smiling slightly as he brushed against the messenger. Half of his retinue walked with him, most tending to his cloak, while the others stayed with the horse. He strode to the far end of the high table and paused to study each person who sat there. He slid his fingertips along the lip of the table, and Elizabeth saw the silvery sparkle of Fae dust left by his touch.

He moved past Alexander and Eleanor quickly, almost dismissively. He paused before Annelise, surveying her so intently that Elizabeth feared for her older sister. Had he come to seize a mortal bride?

To Elizabeth’s relief, he shook his head and moved on.

He watched Isabella with an intensity that made terror coil in Elizabeth’s gut. His eyes were so dark that they appeared to have no pupils. He could have been a man with a thousand dark secrets, every one of them dangerous for a mortal to know. That he stared so long at Isabella could be no good thing, but without revealing that she could see him, Elizabeth did not know what to do.

He nodded abruptly, some decision made. What did his nod mean? Elizabeth’s heart pounded when he took a step closer to her. She swallowed and made to look at her trencher again, knowing that this otherworldly king would survey her next.

And he would realize that she could see him.

She felt him pause before her. There was silence and stillness of such intensity that Elizabeth knew he looked upon her. Finally she could stand it no longer, and flicked a glance toward the messenger, knowing she would see this Fae king when she did as much.

He had turned away, much to her relief, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling. Elizabeth looked upward and saw the glittering ribbons that rose from her and her sisters. In fact, there was a tangle of ribbons against the ceiling of the hall, rising from all the people in the hall in a glorious riot of colors. Elizabeth had learned that her ability to see these ribbons was a gift, for they indicated the bonds of true love. She had seen the ribbons of her siblings entwined with the spouses they had eventually taken. The king smiled and she knew he saw them as well.

He reached behind himself to one of his attendants, who offered a dark snake to him. Elizabeth realized that it had once been a ribbon, but now it was musty and rotten. It trailed back out the doorway, past the portal and into the night. He gave it a tug and it did not break, so it yet had an inner strength—and more than might have been assumed by appearances. Indeed, when he shook it, some of the dust fell from it, and Elizabeth could see that it had once been a rich purple.

One of his attendants took flight and seized the copper ribbon that unfurled above Isabella, presenting it to the king. He knotted them together securely, testing the strength of the bond, then cast them skyward together.

To what man had the king bound Isabella?

He turned and met her gaze so abruptly that Elizabeth had no chance to pretend she could not see him. Her heart stopped cold and she was snared in the shadowed depths of his gaze. His eyes seemed to draw her ever closer, pulling her into a void in which nothing mattered but the Fae king and his desires. She felt her resistance to him fade and die, felt herself start to rise to follow him.

He held up a finger and she knew he wanted her to stay.

She sat back, enthralled by him.

The king smiled at her, as if amused by her reaction. He reached up and seized her ribbon, a banner of brilliant crimson that glimmered in the light from the candles. He seemed to admire it, then turned a twinkling glance upon her as he broke it without remorse. He flung one end aside, giving the end that extended to her a little tug.

His words echoed in her thoughts, his voice so rich and melodious that she could have listened to him forever. One day, beauteous Elizabeth, you will come to me. His smile broadened. I already grow impatient. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, a yearning burgeoning within Elizabeth with just that glance.

The Fae king pivoted abruptly and returned to his steed, his cloak flaring behind him and the beast stamping in its impatience to be gone. Elizabeth could not look away from him, so greedy was she to learn all his mysteries. Who was he? Where did he go? How would she go to him—and when—without knowing who he was or where he might be found?

After he departed, she felt as if she had awakened from a long sleep. The messenger was being escorted away by Anthony and Isabella rose from the board. Elizabeth considered the ribbons overhead and knew she had to tell Isabella what she had seen.

Chapter Four

Murdoch could not sleep. The forest was alive with Fae and he did not trust them a whit. The gnarled trunks of the trees around him shifted to become faces with gaping mouths, laughing at him. He heard the scamper of small feet under the dried leaves that covered the forest floor and he knew these were not small creatures of the woods. It was Fae, dancing, laughing, dueling with pine needles, swinging from cobwebs.

And he was so cold. He was chilled to his marrow, colder than he might have believed it possible for a man to be. The tips of his fingers were blue and he could scarce feel his toes. But the worst of it was in his chest. It seemed that there was a lump of ice within him, one that was slowly and steadily freezing his entire body.

He did not have to look to know that the blue tendril was growing over his skin. He could feel its incremental progress, and in the darkness of the night, Murdoch was terrified.

What would the Elphine Queen do with his heart?

How could he survive without it?

Murdoch lay awake, his hands clenched into fists, fearful for the fate of the horses, of his companions, of himself.

He felt the wind still, as if all the world was holding its breath. Even the Fae in the shadows ceased to chatter, though they continued to move. When the sky was fully dark—an impenetrable black overhead, and one devoid of stars—the snow began to fall. It cascaded in silence over the forest, as if a white chemise had been cast over the tops of the trees.

It seemed that time had stopped.

Murdoch concentrated on ensuring his heart did not. He was aware that it labored more heavily than once it had, and could not purge his mind of the image of his blackening heart trapped in that crystal orb. He breathed steadily and regularly, forcing himself to inhale and exhale, all the while listening for the Elphine Queen.

The breath of the horses made plumes of steam in the air and the forest seemed wrought of silver and black. The surface of the river turned to a dark mirror as ice slowly claimed its surface. Flakes of snow fluttered through the canopy of trees, slowly carpeting the branches and the ground. Murdoch guessed it gathered more quickly on the fields beyond the forest, but he did not rise to look.

He feigned sleep, but his palms were damp with icy sweat. He heard Stewart pacing and clearing his throat on the first watch. He listened to the vigor with which Hamish snored and savored these signs of mortal presence.

Still the cold grew within him, turning his very bones to ice. He tried to think of hot summer days, of raging fires, of the golden heat that could be savored before the hearth at Seton Hall. He tried to remember merry times of companionship and the feel of a hot meal in his belly.

But what filled his thoughts was the remembered sight of Isabella’s hair in the sunlight. When she had leaned out the window, her hair had been unbound and had flowed over her shoulders like a copper cloud. Touched by the sun, it was radiant, brilliant, a sight to fill him with wonder.

He recalled the heat of her pressed against him, the taste of her and the softness of her lips beneath his. He thought of the spark of intellect in her eyes and the admiration he had glimpsed in her expression, never mind her passion for justice.

And to Murdoch’s amazement, the cold retreated. He seized upon his memories of Isabella—so few as yet, but he would see that changed—and filled his thoughts with them. He might have warmed himself fully, but he felt cold lips touch his ear.

“Hail, lover,” the Queen of Elphine whispered. “How fares your captive heart?”

The hair prickled on the back of Murdoch’s neck at her caress and he refused to open his eyes. His heart seemed to clench, its pace slowing as if it turned to ice within his body..

Murdoch gritted his teeth. He would not look into her eyes. He would not surrender. Somehow, he would survive. Somehow he would foil her scheme.

“You stole it,” he said tightly. “You lied to me. Instead of giving me freedom, you seized my heart.”

She laughed lightly, her fingertip tracing little circles on his clothing, circles that reminded him of the pattern growing on his arm.

Her voice conjured images in Murdoch’s thoughts, visions of the golden splendor of her hall and the taste of the sweet golden wine upon his tongue. A treacherous yearning to experience that Fae court and its joys again began to blossom within him. It was warm there. His leg had healed there. He had been merry and at ease, and had savored a thousand pleasures without remorse.

“Think of this, lover. I have fulfilled your desire. I let you return home and allowed you the choice.” The Elphine Queen kissed Murdoch’s cheek, her touch making him shiver. Her words fed upon themselves, making it seem natural for him to turn to her again, to look into her eyes. “Surely you have seen that this realm offers nothing to you.” Her voice dropped low. “Surely you know now that only I can fulfill all your dreams. Kiss me, Murdoch, and end this game.”

Murdoch kept his eyes tightly shut. He reminded himself that the Elphine Queen was a liar. She promised what she could not give and took what was not her due. She would cheat him of the gift she had supposedly given, simply to amuse herself. To release him but compel him to return to her to survive was no gift.

And her realm and its pleasures was not real.

She was as unlike Isabella as any woman could be. Murdoch seized upon his recollection of that fiery maiden, just the thought sending new heat through his body. Isabella was honest and true. She was like a beam of sunlight in the darkness cast by the Elphine Queen.

“What is this?” the Elphine Queen murmured. “You find something of merit in the mortal realm, after all?” Her voice became insistent and Murdoch could fairly taste the Fae wine again. He felt the temptation grow and knew he needed to reject it.

Isabella was the key.

“You would spurn me, despite all I offer?” The Elphine Queen moved abruptly, and Murdoch’s eyes flew open in fear. She stood before him, her hair flowing over her shoulders like a black river. Her breasts were bare and ripe, her smile glinted with something that he might once have mistaken for desire. Her skin was covered with blue whorls and spirals, a pattern that was echoed by the small cluster on his wrist.

She leaned over him like a thundercloud. Murdoch averted his gaze. He recalled Isabella’s kiss, how her passion had awakened, how her touch had snared him.

“I shall leave you as I found you,” the Elphine Queen said with a hiss of disapproval.

Murdoch felt pain stab in his thigh, a pain that he recalled well enough. He looked down as the blood flowed over his leg, soaking his chausses and the ground beneath him. The cloth tore as he watched, the wound festering with lightning speed. His skin fairly boiled, infection and illness seething beneath the skin, stretching it and turning it bright red. He would feel the fever again, he would sweat and he would have chills, and he would lose his wits in a snowstorm.

The Elphine Queen watched, her smile cold. “You were ill. You were mortally ill,” she reminded him. “I saved you—and I saved you for myself.”

It was true, all true, but Murdoch could not tear his gaze away from the festering wound. He cried out in pain as the skin burst and the infection spilled forth. It spewed across his skin, and he gagged to realize it was filled with maggots instead of pus.

Murdoch shouted in horror and tried to wipe the abomination away.

“Choose,” the Elphine Queen instructed, then in a sparkle of starlight, she disappeared.

As surely as if she had never been.

Murdoch was sitting in the snow, his back against a tree, his chest so tight that he could not catch a breath. His fists were clenched, snow between his fingers. His heart raced, proof that it was yet within his chest after all. He felt his thigh, incredulous to find it as hale and strong as ever.

Was he losing his wits?

What if she spoke the truth this time? He could surrender to her and be a captive of Fae forever, or he could remain in the mortal realm, but with his old injury restored. Murdoch remembered the wound that had seen him dispatched from fighting, recalled how it had not responded to any treatment and had nearly killed him.

Was he doomed to die?

“What ails you, lad? Nightmares of your time at war?” Stewart demanded, as he came around the horses. “Or wherever you were?”

“Something like that,” Murdoch admitted, heaving a sigh and wiping his brow. He could not see the Fae in the woods anymore, nor was he quite so cold. He swallowed and pushed to his feet, unable to resist the urge to look at his wrist.

The swirl had grown bigger.

Isabella, he reminded himself. He had to hold the maiden in his thoughts.

“I merely had a bad dream,” Murdoch lied, willing his pulse to slow. He felt disheveled, agitated, fearful, and that would not do. “It was no more than that,” he insisted, as if to persuade himself.

“Not the first you have had on this journey,” Stewart noted, though truly none had been so vivid as this one. “Tormented by your deeds in France?” His tone was light but Murdoch knew the older man invited his confidence.

If he shared the truth, Stewart would think him mad.

“The past is done,” Murdoch said, as if speaking with force could make it true. “I did only what I had to do.”

“And war is war,” Stewart said with a nod. “You would not be the first man haunted by bloodshed and violence, whether it was by his own hand or not. I doubt you will be the last.”

Murdoch brushed off his tabard and straightened it, well aware of Stewart’s curiosity. “I shall not sleep more this night. Let me take the next watch now.”

“You will not have to argue with me on that.” Stewart wrapped himself in his cloak, then winced as he tried to find a comfortable position. “Though I hope to find myself dreaming of sweet damsels and a thick pallet by the fire.” He smiled. “Perhaps a belly full of stew and ale. That would suit me well.”

“Me, as well,” Murdoch agreed. He marched around the perimeter of their encampment, stamping his feet to warm them. His leg was fine, a fact that continued to amaze him. Stewart was soon snoring as loudly as Hamish and Murdoch was truly alone. He stared through the shadows of the forest at the distant tower of Kinfairlie’s keep and thought again of the maiden Isabella.

Murdoch closed his eyes, summoned the image of the lady who warmed his thoughts, and found the terror ebbing from his mind.

Did she have a special power to drive the shadows from his thoughts? Was it her nature at root? Or was she simply not Fae, and thus able to counter the Elphine Queen’s spells? Murdoch did not know, but he decided—that night as he stood in silence in the falling snow—that he needed to find out.

Should the lady Isabella be his salvation, that might change all.

He thought of what had transpired this night, considered what the Laird of Kinfairlie might do in retaliation and checked the hoof of the messenger’s horse once again. And in the darkness, while his companions slept, Murdoch made his plan.

* * *

“Isabella! Wait!”

Elizabeth raced after her older sister, chasing her up the stairs from the hall. To Elizabeth’s surprise, Isabella had gone past the portal to their chamber, as if she meant to continue to the solar.

“Where are you going?” she demanded. “Are you so ill that you become confused?”

Isabella halted and turned, irritation touching her expression before she smiled for Elizabeth. “I thought you meant to stay at the board for a while. Maybe dance.” She said this last word with force, as if she would have preferred Elizabeth to be dancing.

It made little sense that Isabella would care, so Elizabeth ignored her sister’s mood. So many in Kinfairlie were irritable of late, after all.

All the same, Isabella’s manner fed Elizabeth’s uncertainty. She had been so sure that she had to warn her sister, but now that the Fae king was gone and she had left the warmth of the hall, she had doubts.

She also had a curious sense that she should not tell anyone of the Fae king. Indeed, she felt protective of the moment she had shared with him, the intimacy of his words echoing in her own thoughts.

But she had to warn Isabella about the ribbon. “I have to tell you something. Quick, let us go into our chamber where no one else will hear.”

As always, the prospect of a secret to be shared made Isabella move more quickly

“Tell me what?” Isabella asked. The pair stepped into their chamber and Isabella shut the door, leaning back against it. Their maid Vera had already set a trio of braziers alight and there was a lantern lit as well. The room was filled with golden light, and the shutters were closed against the night. The cold air still seeped into the room, that cursed wind rattling at the shutters, and Elizabeth shivered.

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The Fae came to the hall this night.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “Elizabeth, you must forget this whimsy about seeing the Fae...”

Elizabeth was insulted. “It is not whimsy! I see them and I hear them.”

Isabella crossed her arms, her expression both impatience and skeptical. “And what has the spriggan Darg to tell us this time? Or is it invisible ribbons that you see, knotted together in the sky?”

That Isabella should mock the ribbons made Elizabeth reconsider the notion of confiding in her. “I thought you might be interested, since the matter concerns you, but I see that I was mistaken. If you mean to make a jest of my tale, then I shall not burden you with it.” She would have returned to the hall and let her sister worry about the tidings she was missing, but Isabella did not move from the portal.

“Wait a moment. What concerns me?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Isabella smiled. “Because you are desperate to tell someone and I am here.”

“But you do not believe me!”

“Perhaps the tale will change my mind.”

Elizabeth doubted that, but she did think it was fair to warn her sister.

To her own surprise, Elizabeth found herself modifying the tale somewhat in the telling. She was not inclined to lie, but did not want to speak of the king. “It is Darg,” she said, which was partly true. “Since the collapse of Ravensmuir, I thought the creature departed for good.”

“But?”

“But on this night, I heard Darg muttering when the messenger appeared.”

“Muttering about what?”

“About thieves and strangers invading.” To her surprise, Elizabeth could not remember the precise verse. She could only think of the Fae king’s dark gaze.

Isabella shrugged. “Surely the battles of the Fae are not ours, if they even exist.”

“Surely they are,” Elizabeth retorted and found herself telling an outright lie. “For Darg knotted your ribbon in fury.” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Isabella evidently took her response as a sign that she had broken some pledge to say nothing. “My ribbon? The ones you see binding each of us to our true loves?”

Elizabeth stared at the floor. What had seized her tongue? “Aye, I said the matter concerned you.”

“If you saw a ribbon of mine, you must have seen it bound to another.” Isabella’s eyes shone with curiosity. “Whose ribbon was it? Who is the man in question?”

“I do not know. I saw only that his ribbon trailed into the darkness beyond the hall. Your ribbon is copper and his is as black as soot. It might once have been purple, but it is rotted and dark.”

“Where is he?”

“I do not know.” Elizabeth shrugged before Isabella’s skeptical gaze.

“That is not much information. Perhaps the ribbon is not real.” Isabella smiled, something in her manner adding to Elizabeth’s conviction that her sister was concealing some detail from her. “Come to bed and let’s be warm together.”

“I thought you meant to continue up the stairs.” Elizabeth heard her own suspicion.

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because you were halfway up those stairs.”

Isabella’s smile faded. She was a terrible liar, which meant she was hiding some matter. “You were mistaken,” she said, turning her back on Elizabeth. “I was not.”

Liar, liar.

But Elizabeth could play by the same rules. Indeed, Isabella’s refusal to confide in Elizabeth made it seem perfectly reasonable to keep the visit of the Fae king to herself.

Never mind his words.

One day, beauteous Elizabeth, you will come to me.

Elizabeth shivered in delight long after she was huddled abed with Isabella. She would go to the king with his wondrous dark eyes. And then what? She was certain adventure and romance would ensue.

And she could scarce wait.

* * *

“He does just as you said he would, my lord,” Gavin whispered with admiration. “How did you guess what the Laird of Kinfairlie would do?”

It was morning and Murdoch crouched in the shadows of the forest with the boy, holding the bridle of the messenger’s horse. A fine chestnut mare, the horse had thrown a shoe in the exchange the night before and was limping badly. She had need of a blacksmith’s skill, and Murdoch would not leave her in pain.

Which meant the horse could not flee the laird’s hunting party with Stewart and Hamish. She had to go to Kinfairlie village, as that was the closest blacksmith. It would have been cruel to do otherwise.

Murdoch and Gavin stood together at the perimeter of the forest. Even from here, they could see the activity in the bailey of Kinfairlie’s tower as the laird mustered his hunting party. Murdoch wished he had a glass to see their numbers better, but in truth, it mattered little. Stewart and Hamish had already fled with the horses—save this one—and would be well away before the laird’s party even entered the forest.

“He does what my father would have done,” Murdoch said, stifling a bit of admiration for this young laird. He could have dispatched some mercenary from his household to fulfill this task, and Murdoch respected that the laird led the party himself. “Understand that it is the obligation of a laird to defend all those beneath his hand, from any threat.”

“And he thinks us a threat, sir?”

“Indeed. That is my intent.”

The dark-haired squire frowned. “So, is he a good laird, then, sir?”

“He appears to be good at fulfilling some of his responsibilities. That does not mean that he is not a thief, or that he does not shelter a thief.” Murdoch turned from the boy, and listened. The forest was already silent. Stewart and Hamish had flung bloody scraps behind them from the rabbits they had eaten the day before, in order to distract the dogs.

He did not like dividing his party but this horse could not be ridden far, and Stewart might have to ride both far and fast.

Murdoch still had mixed feelings about letting Gavin perform this errand, although he knew Stewart’s counsel was good. He would have preferred to have taken the horse to Kinfairlie village himself and sent the boy with Stewart. But Stewart was right: the boy would likely be chastised if caught, and released. Even if he were imprisoned, Murdoch and Stewart would rescue him. If Murdoch were captured, however, his fate would undoubtedly be worse and rescue might prove impossible.

Still, he could not leave the boy alone to fulfill this quest. Though Stewart disapproved, Murdoch had insisted upon this chosen course as a compromise.

“Will Hamish and Stewart be safe, my lord?”

Murdoch smiled for Gavin. “They will be well enough. Stewart is cunning when the need calls for it. We shall see them late this night or on the morrow, just as planned, although they will have led the laird on a merry chase by then.”

Gavin nodded and licked his lips. “Is it right what we do, sir?”

“Is it right that Seton Manor’s relic is stolen and that those who abide there will go hungry this spring, all because of that thief?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then we choose the lesser of two evils in order to serve the greater good.”

Gavin grinned. “I liked when we surprised the messenger. ’Twas a bold deed, like those done by knights in old tales.”

The boy’s enthusiasm pricked at Murdoch’s conscience and he changed the subject to the matter at hand. “Wait for them to be deep in the forest,” he advised, lowering his voice. “I want to ensure that they do not see your departure from this point. Then take the steed directly to the blacksmith. You see the smoke rising there, just to the right of the keep’s tower?”

“Aye, sir.”

“That will be the blacksmith’s forge, for it is the hottest fire in the village. See? The smoke is nigh white.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Do not let her run for she will only injure herself. Walk.”

Gavin’s lips set with resolve. “Aye, my lord.”

“You are small enough as yet that she can bear your weight and it will be faster if you ride. The sooner she is in the smith’s care and you are away, the better.”

Gavin nodded, his gaze fixed on Kinfairlie.

“Confess as little as you can, leave as much coin as you must, and flee, leaving the horse in the blacksmith’s care. We must trust his honesty that it will be returned to the messenger.” Murdoch smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair. “I know you can run faster than a hare, Gavin, and on this day you may have to.”

The boy straightened, a glint of determination lighting in his eye. “And you will be there, sir, should anything go awry.”

“I will be there. I will ensure that you escape, one way or the other.”

“You will not risk your own welfare, my lord?”

“I will risk what I must.” Murdoch squeezed the boy’s shoulder and smiled encouragement. “Can you do this task?.”

Gavin nodded, his grip tightening on the steed’s reins. Murdoch slipped through the forest toward the road, ignoring the whispers of the Fae on all sides. He tugged his cloak tightly around himself, savored the weight of the dagger hidden in his boot, and felt naked without his armor and sword. It was all hidden away, the better to let him pass as an innocent peasant.

He felt better, though, to be away from the forest. Every step he took toward Kinfairlie seemed to make him more himself again, to rekindle his old audacity and boldness. The Elphine Queen and her threats seemed to be no more than a foul dream, one scattered and forgotten by morning’s light. He was filled with anticipation.

Murdoch strode down the road, emerging from the forest’s shadow just as the laird’s hunting party left Kinfairlie village. He could have waited and remained unseen, but he wanted the laird to have the chance to see him. He wanted to taunt the man, to test his mettle, to leave a hint.

It was reckless, but Murdoch had no taste for the safe choice.

The horses were urged to a gallop, the steeds so clearly welcoming the chance to run that Murdoch halted to watch. They were beautiful creatures, well bred and well tended. Their coats were glossy and their manes were thick. The dogs raced ahead of the horses, barking, and the pennants rippled in the wind. The laird himself took the lead, and Murdoch belatedly recalled his supposed station.

He stepped off the road, into the ditch, and bowed his head as the party passed. Within the shadows of his hood, he smiled, though, for the Laird of Kinfairlie would not find the prey he sought within Kinfairlie’s forest.

He would never look within his own village.

Which might give Murdoch a welcome opportunity to seek out the lady Isabella once again.

* * *

It was cold when Isabella rose, but she was unable to sleep or feign sleep any longer. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. That wicked wind had gathered strength during the night and now it whistled through the crannies in Kinfairlie’s tower. The sky was overcast, but it was too cold to snow more.

Elizabeth burrowed beneath the covers, grumbling some complaint as Isabella left.

Isabella watched as Alexander mustered his hunting party in the bailey below, fighting her concern for Murdoch. She had laid awake half the night with worry, trying to calculate how she could visit Alexander’s chamber of ledgers.

And now time slid away. At least two dozen armed men prepared to ride out with Alexander, their expressions as determined as that of their laird, and there were hunting dogs, as well. Surely Murdoch would not be captured? Or if he was, surely he would repent at the sign of Alexander’s resolve to see justice done.

Isabella wished she could have been more convinced of that. What little she had seen of Murdoch persuaded her that he would do what he believed to be right, independent of possible consequences. He had done this apurpose to provoke Alexander—and it had worked. Had he anticipated as much? Had he a greater scheme?

And where was the relic?

Maybe she could beg Alexander to offer clemency to Murdoch, after he was captured. The trouble was that she had need of evidence and her family was cursedly numerous. The key to Alexander’s chamber was in the solar, and with Eleanor abed, there was no chance of retrieving it unobserved. Even once she had the key, she had to enter Alexander’s chamber of records without another being aware of what she did. With this foul wind, all seemed determined to remain in the hall and huddle together.

In the bailey below, Alexander swung into his saddle and donned his helm. He gave directions to his party, then shouted a command. The men turned their horses as one, a hunting horn was blown, and the entire party cantered through the gates of the keep. Isabella saw them ride through Kinfairlie village, the villagers cheering their laird on to triumph. Once past the village walls, the horses began to gallop along the road that wound toward Kinfairlie forest. The dogs were loosed and ran ahead of the horses.

Where was Murdoch? Would he be safe? Isabella could not tolerate the uncertainty.

“They shall hunt the villain to the ground,” Annelise said from behind her with surprising satisfaction. Isabella jumped, for she had not realized that her sister was awake. Annelise laid a hand on Isabella’s shoulder and smiled. “You need not fear for our safety. Alexander will see us defended.”

Isabella turned to stare out the window again, not wanting to correct her sister’s assumption. She had to get into Alexander’s chamber while her brother was away. It was the sole chance. She watched the hunting party flow along the road toward Kinfairlie’s forest, pennants snapping and dogs barking.

A lone peasant, his dark cloak wrapped tightly around his body, had only just emerged from the forest. Evidently he walked to Kinfairlie village, but the sight of Alexander’s party made him halt. He stepped into the ditch to let the laird’s party pass, holding his hood around his face against the clutch of the wind. He turned to watch their passage into the forest, doubtless in awe of the splendor of the party. When Alexander’s party disappeared into the woods, he continued to trudge toward Kinfairlie village, the hem of his dark cloak flicking in the wind.

Roland crowed Annelise’s name as Vera led him into the chamber, saving Isabella from making a reply. Annelise laughed as she went to scoop their nephew into her arms. She spun around and Roland held out his arms, squealing with pleasure at the ride she gave him. Elizabeth complained anew about the noise and Isabella left with a mumbled excuse.

She found Eleanor in the corridor leaning on Moira’s arm. That lady thanked her again for her aid, but declined another posset as yet. “Come to the hall with us,” Eleanor invited. “I intend to sit by the fire and catch up with all the tidings I have missed. Come join us while we await Alexander’s return.”

This was the last deed Isabella wished to do, but she could hardly decline. “I suppose I should collect my needlework,” she said, trying to not sound impatient.

“That is an excellent notion!” Eleanor paused on the summit of the stairs and glanced back. “Isabella, could you bring my embroidery to the hall? I shall work upon it there.”

An excuse to enter the solar alone! It was precisely the opportunity Isabella required. She tried to hide her impatience. “Of course!”

“You will sit by the fire,” Moira insisted to Eleanor. “With furs over your lap, and you shall not rise until midday. Should you desire any thing, you will tell me and I will fetch it for you. Are we understood?”

“Who is mistress and who is maid?” Eleanor teased.

Moira flushed. “You must ensure that you do not strain yourself, my lady,” she continued. “You have only to tell me what you wish to see done, or what you desire to have brought to you, and I shall see that it is so.”

“I know it well, Moira. You are kind to me always. Let us get down to the hall for it is cool here.”

The pair began to descend the stairs, Eleanor leaning more heavily on the maid’s arm than was her custom.

Meanwhile, Moira continued. “’Tis the laird’s second son you bear, I will wager, and ’tis my responsibility to do my best to ensure he comes shouting into the day, just as Roland did, as hale and as hearty as a babe might be.”

“It might be a girl, Moira, this time being so different from the last.”

“It is boys as make the trouble, my lady, you shall see...”

Eleanor and Moira disappeared, the maid’s voice fading.

Isabella pivoted and fled up the stairs. She was in the solar in moments, the key to Alexander’s chamber retrieved from the small chest beside the curtained bed. She flicked the needle from Eleanor’s embroidery on to the floor and kicked it into the darkness of the corner. On silent feet, she crossed the hall on that floor, turned the key in the lock and slipped into Alexander’s chamber.

She had not much time.

Chapter Five

Gavin held his hand over the snout of the messenger’s horse, ensuring that he and the steed were well hidden in the forest’s shadows. He watched Murdoch walk toward the village. The Laird of Kinfairlie’s hunting party galloped toward the forest, the mare in Gavin’s care stamping at the sight of them.

The Laird of Kinfairlie did precisely as his lord Murdoch had promised. Gavin was awed by his master’s ability to anticipate the choice of another.

And he stood tall with this responsibility. He had never anticipated such adventure when he had been chosen to accompany his laird’s brother, and indeed, he found his lord Murdoch’s tactics thrilling. Although Stewart disapproved, this was like a great game. The messenger had been terrified the night before, but he had not been injured. And lord Murdoch would ensure the horse was not just shoed but returned. Coin jingled in Gavin’s purse, and his heart pounded that he was entrusted with a deed worthy of a tale.

Gavin watched the hunting party enter the woods. The dogs barked, scattering into the undergrowth, their keepers whistling to drive them on. One headed toward the hidden squire and Gavin’s eyes rounded. The horse shook her head, but he held fast. They could not be discovered before they began!

A loud clear whistle called off the dog, much to Gavin’s relief. The hound turned and raced noisily through the brush to join its fellows.

Lord Murdoch had disappeared within Kinfairlie village.

The party continued deep into the forest, the sounds of their passage becoming muted with distance.

It was time.

Gavin swung into the saddle. He took a deep breath, then he touched his heels to the mare’s flanks. The horse leapt through the brush with an enthusiasm that nearly unseated him. The mare erupted from the forest and began to gallop for the road.

She must know this village. She must know that she would be well-treated in Kinfairlie’s stables. That reassured Gavin that he might not come to such a dire end in Kinfairlie. With an effort, he slowed the mare to a walk and eyed the smoke from the smith’s forge.

Lord Murdoch would be there. All would come right.

* * *

Isabella leaned back against the heavy wooden door as she surveyed Alexander’s chamber. There was a veritable stack of ledgers and she guessed these were the records of Kinfairlie’s accounts over the years. She despaired at the sheer volume of them. It would take her months to look through them all!

She had only moments.

Isabella had to choose. She stepped toward the table Alexander used to work upon those ledgers, choosing where to start. There were several quills and vials of ink, as well as a bowl for the ink when he intended to write. The bowl was clean and dry. There was a small knife for sharpening quills, a fat candle and store of sealing wax. Alexander’s signet ring, of course, was on his finger.

Mindful of the window, Isabella sat in her brother’s chair and ran her hands along the edge of the table. She knew not what she sought precisely, much less where it might be. She could not imagine that the truth was hidden in the ledgers of account—or if it was, it would be well buried.

Her gaze fell upon a small chest on the floor to her right. She bent and opened it, for it was unlocked.

It was filled with scrolls of vellum and parchment, of the kind that messengers brought to their portal. The seals were broken on the missives and they were less tightly furled than once they had been. Some had ribbons affixed with the seal and several looked as if they had been handled repeatedly. Isabella unrolled one such on the desk, holding it flat with her hands. The last paragraph of the missive snared her eye.

“Though I may risk much in reminding you of old tales, still I do. The Lammergeier have long been said to be sorcerors and even thieves, and the disappearance of this relic—fairly purchased from your family—from a most secure treasury persuades me of the unnatural nature of this theft. I am not the sole one to have made such conclusion, nor am I the only victim of this very same crime. I bid you, my lord, in all fairness, to return the relic that is rightfully our possession.”

This missive was signed from a laird whose holding was near Inverness.

Isabella had been right. Alexander had not been surprised, for he had heard the accusation before.

She quickly worked through the missives in the trunk and discovered no less than ten with similar content. Had Alexander contrived these thefts? She could not believe it, though she could understand the vexation of those who had outlaid coin for the relics. She created a mental list of the relics that were missing, for she was more accustomed to remembering lists than committing them to expensive parchment or vellum.

Who had taken the relics, if not Alexander?

What had Ross brought home at the Yule? A small trunk. Isabella recalled it well. It had been bound with leather straps. She scanned the chamber but did not see it there. Had he taken it with him, or left it here?

Where might it be, if he had entrusted it to Alexander?

There had been another key in the trunk in the solar, a large brass one. Isabella knew it was the key to the treasury, kept on the highest floor of Kinfairlie’s tower. If Alexander had the relics, surely he would secure them there, where none other than he and Anthony went. Even if he held that trunk in trust for Ross, perhaps unaware of its contents, it might well be there.

Isabella returned the missives to the trunk, ensuring that all looked undisturbed. She went to the door again, pressing her ear against the portal to listen.

Silence.

It would not last in this hall.

Isabella had to seize opportunity when she found it.

* * *

It was cursed cold in the treasury, even though the windows were barricaded against the wind. Isabella couldn’t recall there ever having been a fire set in a brazier in this room, and she swore there was frost on the lock.

It was shadowed, as well. Though there were three large window openings, they had been barricaded with wooden planks and little light was admitted to the chamber as a result. Isabella supposed the wood might block other things, as well. Snow and rain, not to mention the Fae who were supposed to come through one of them. Vivienne had adored that old tale of the one window in this chamber being a portal to the realm of the Fae.

She did not dare fetch a lantern and risk discovery, much less waste the time. Fortunately, her eyes were adjusting to the shadows. The treasury appeared to be fairly well organized, likely the labor of Anthony. Chests of coin were stacked to one side, gold sorted from silver, the chests clearly old themselves. Much of this Isabella remembered as Eleanor’s inheritance and she knew it was not relevant to her investigation.

Isabella moved into the room and stirred a cloud of dust from the floor. It swirled around her and tickled her nose, though she fought the urge to sneeze. She moved through the room as quickly as possible, her nose twitching as she looked. There was an assortment of goblets and platters, all of which needed to be polished, but most of which were pieces Isabella recalled from her childhood. She found a small box containing jewelry her mother had worn, touched the pearls with a fingertip and replaced the box in its place with care. There were some lengths of fine cloth, all wrapped with care and set against the wall farthest from the barricaded windows.

Beyond that, there was only a small collection of trunks that held potential. Not a one of them looked like the one Ross had possessed in December. Several of the missing relics had been in jeweled reliquaries, including the one Murdoch sought. Isabella was certain she could spot any of the items on her mental list. She crouched down before the trunks and began to examine their contents. Flipping the lids open launched more clouds of dust and she held her breath as she worked.

In the end, the only thing that gave Isabella pause in her hunt was a collection of teeth secured in a small velvet sack. For a moment, she’d believed she’d discovered a relic of import, until she unfurled the note also tucked into the sack.

It was a list of the names of her and her siblings, in their mother’s hand. There were dates beside each name. Isabella realized with surprise that she held the baby teeth of herself and her siblings. She grimaced and put them back in the sack, securing them in their hiding place once more. She surveyed the treasury one last time and knew there was nothing to be found.

If the thief was at Kinfairlie, he or she was more clever than this. Where else could items of value be secured?

The crypt in Kinfairlie’s chapel.

Isabella moved too quickly across the room in her haste and kicked up another cloud of dust. This time, she could not help but sneeze.

And sneeze three times in succession.

She held her breath, her heart pounding. It was then that she heard a stair outside the door squeak in complaint.

“For the love of God! Where is that girl?” Moira muttered and Isabella knew she would soon be discovered. The stairs creaked as the maid climbed to the third floor. “My lady waits for her embroidery and she waits for no good reason! What is Isabella doing?”

What would she say? What would she do? Isabella spun around and spied her mother’s sewing box, a lovely small box carved of ivory. She seized it, knowing it was full of fine needles and left the treasury locked behind her.

She was halfway down the stairs to the third floor when she feigned surprise at the sight of Moira.

“What are you doing?” the maid demanded, her eyes narrowed.

Isabella presented the needle case. “I could not find Eleanor’s needle, so I thought perhaps she should use my mother’s. It would be fitting for the Lady of Kinfairlie.”

Moira inhaled. “It would be fitting for the Laird of Kinfairlie to make such a gift.”

“Oh, I am certain Alexander would not mind. And it is so pretty! I thought it might cheer Eleanor.” Isabella pushed the case into Moira’s hand and the older woman admired it openly.

“’Tis a lovely piece,” she admitted, then her gaze fell on the key in Isabella’s hand. “How did you get the key?”

“It was in the solar, just as it always is.”

Moira pursed her lips. “I tell you, my lady Isabella, and I tell you with all respect, that in a hall of this size, it is folly for any soul to invite herself to the treasury, even the sister of the laird himself. I know you thought only of my lady and it was your intent to be generous, but had another discovered you here, the matter might not have concluded well.” She held out the needle case. “As ’tis, I cannot see that you can give this to my lady without revealing your deed. I say return it to its place, and suggest to your brother that he make the gift of it to his lady wife as if you have only just recalled its existence.”

Isabella smiled. “You are right, of course, Moira. I simply could not find the other needle.”

“Doubtless you were too hasty about it. It is likely on the floor and we shall find it together.” Moira waited while Isabella returned the needle case, standing at the foot of the stairs like a guardian. When Isabella returned, Moira brushed the dust from her kirtle, surveying the younger woman sternly as she ensured that there were no signs of her transgression.

The needle was indeed upon the floor in the solar and Isabella let Moira discover it. It seemed she had an unknown talent for subterfuge. She still had to get to the crypt in the chapel and had need of an excuse.

Isabella thought of it when she and Moira joined Eleanor in the hall.

“Eleanor, do you think it would be wise for me to check on the baker’s son today? The word is that he is recovered, but I wonder if perhaps his mother, Siobhan, does not wish to make requests for your aid when all know you to be unwell.”

Eleanor smiled so warmly that Isabella felt like a fraud. “What kindness you show, Isabella. That is a very good idea, and I am certain Siobhan will be glad of your presence, even if the boy is better.”

Isabella seized her cloak and headed for the portal. No one would know the difference if she stopped at Kinfairlie’s chapel to check the crypt for relics.

* * *

Murdoch was struck once again by the affluence of Kinfairlie, an affluence that had no apparent source. He sensed that there was more to the fortunes of this holding than was readily apparent. Could Isabella explain the truth to him?

Would she?

Or would she—like the Elphine Queen—simply betray him in the end? Isabella might reveal him to her brother and see him condemned for his boldness. Murdoch did not want to believe it. He wanted the fiery maiden to be his touchstone, to be the example of good in the mortal realm.

Indeed, he wanted far more of her than that.

Murdoch recalled all he had seen of Isabella as he entered Kinfairlie village, remembering every flash of her eyes and that one unwitting smile. Doing so warmed him as nothing else could have done, and when he thought of the sweet passion of her kiss, the chill in his chest seemed to fade.

He endeavored to slip through the town without being noticed. He kept his hood pulled over his face and spoke as little as possible, working his way steadily toward the smith’s forge to await Gavin.

With every step he had taken from the forest, he had felt the grip of the Elphine Queen loosen a little more. He could breathe more readily and the brisk walk put the heat back in his body. He felt more himself, more alive and more daring, and the change was more than welcome.

Indeed, it increased his yearning to see the lady Isabella again and ascertain the fullness of her effect upon him. Had it been merely a first impression that swayed him, one that would dissipate with more association? Murdoch wanted very much to know.

It was busy in the village, a small line of plow horses awaiting the smith’s attention. That man spared Murdoch a surprisingly intent look, his gaze so dark and aware that Murdoch wondered what he saw.

He settled into the shadows opposite the smith’s forge to watch, well aware that no one had noticed him except the smith. He filled his thoughts with the allure of Isabella, and was so snared in his recollections that when she marched down the road before him, he halfway thought he had conjured her.

Isabella walked with her hood thrown back. The brilliant copper of her hair had been braided but already the unruly curls escaped their bonds. She smiled as she made her way down the street, purpose in her step, and Murdoch noted the affection with which the villagers greeted her.

With that one glimpse, he was sure. Isabella was all he had believed her to be. A telling heat unfurled within him, desire mingled with something more. His reaction to the sight of her was just as he had anticipated, a fire within his body and an admiration in his thoughts.

She was clearly intent upon some destination, and Murdoch wanted to know what goal held her attention so fast. What had she learned? Did she seek him out? He might have followed her through the village to ensure such a meeting, but he had to wait for Gavin.

He watched her stop to speak to the smith and savored the sound of her laughter, knowing then that he could not leave Kinfairlie village without another taste of Isabella. When Gavin was safely away, Murdoch would pursue the lady.

Wherever she might be found.

* * *

There was a fair line at the smith’s forge on this day, the crowd blocking Isabella’s progress toward the chapel. A good half dozen horses awaited with their masters, plow horses and palfreys standing together. This smith had come to Kinfairlie two years before and he was so highly skilled that his forge was always busy. There were even those who said he had been taught by the Fae, though he never confirmed the tales. Isabella worked her way through the amiable cluster of villagers, greeting those she knew. The smith glanced at her, then across the way before bending over his task again.

Was he warning her? Of what?

Isabella followed the direction of the smith’s look and found a peasant swathed in a dark cloak standing in the shadows there. It looked to be the same man she had seen earlier, walking toward Kinfairlie. Why would he journey to the village only to stand by a wagon of hay and watch the smith? She could feel the weight of his bold gaze upon her, though his face was hidden within the shadows of his hood.

What had the smith noticed about him?

Perhaps it was simply that he was a stranger—although he might not be one when his face was revealed. There was no way to know without approaching him, and the smith’s glance ensured that Isabella did not do as much.

A boy from Alexander’s own stable held the reins of one of Kinfairlie’s black destriers, the beast’s nostrils flaring as the smith attempted to give it a new shoe. The smith spoke constantly to the horse, his murmur of reassurance working less well than usual. His murmuring might have been a lullaby he whispered to the steeds, but it had a lesser effect upon this one.

Isabella knew why. “It is Hermes, is it not?” she asked, pausing to stroke the nose of the notoriously temperamental stallion. He survived because of his beauty and power, and his enthusiasm to stud. Alexander would never sell Hermes to another, because his mood was unpredictable. The stallion’s eyes rolled at her touch, but then he settled, exhaling noisily.

“Aye, Lady Isabella.” The apprentice held fast to Hermes’ bridle while the stallion fought the bit. The smith frowned when he lost grip of the beast’s ankle. Hermes stamped that foot on the ground, undoing what progress the smith had already made by shaking the new shoe loose. The smith picked it up and held it again in the fire, his expression one of resignation.

Isabella had to be of assistance. She stroked the horse and he stilled, shuddering from head to toe first, then arching his neck with pride as he stood his ground.

“He has a weakness for you, my lady,” the smith noted. “Is it possible you might linger a moment? I would not detain you, but Hermes is in a mood on this day.” The smith cast her look of silent appeal.

“Perhaps it is that infernal wind,” suggested one man in the line and others agreed.

Isabella smiled. “Perhaps it is just Hermes.” She stroked Hermes’ nose even as the smith nodded agreement.

“Doubtless it is because he is the most handsome of all the stallions in Kinfairlie’s stable and he would be admired first,” Isabella murmured to Hermes and the others in the line chuckled. The horse bent to nibble at her hair. Isabella laughed and scratched his ears. “The most handsome of all,” she crooned and he blew out his lips.

The smith laid claim to that hoof again and set to work while the horse was distracted. Hermes was too intrigued with Isabella and the ribbon in her hair to fight the smith. He chewed the ribbon with enthusiasm.

“Hermes is so vain that he cannot hear the truth of it often enough,” Isabella continued. The stallion preened at her attentions, seemingly oblivious to the smith’s actions. Isabella felt some soul watching her avidly and realized it was the man with the hood. She did not look his way.

“Such a beautiful boy,” she told the horse, keeping note of the smith’s progress. “The most handsome steed in Christendom.” Hermes nickered as if in agreement with such wisdom, and the smith hammered home the last nail with satisfaction.

“There! I thank you for your aid, my lady.” The smith stepped back.

Once released, Hermes stamped his foot once more, but this time, the shoe did not come free. He then nudged Isabella with force, sniffing her hands with persistence. He fairly pushed her down the road, despite her laughing protests.

“Hermes remembers that you oft bring him apples,” the stable hand said.

“And he is fool enough to think I have hidden them away. You have a nose, Hermes, and you must know that I have not an apple for you on this day.” The horse snorted as she scolded him, and nudged her more determinedly. Isabella would have changed her path to go to the chapel, but Hermes would have none of it. “Away with you, Hermes, I have an errand.” Hermes urged her toward Kinfairlie’s stables—where there was a store of apples.

“He wants his reward, my lady, and it seems pretty words will not suffice.” The smith chuckled at her fate, along with the others.

Save the man in the hood, who simply watched. His stillness was striking. Was that the flash of a smile Isabella glimpsed within the shadows of his hood?

She might have marched across the road to demand his name, but one of the men in line abruptly gave a low whistle. “Now, there is a fine beast,” he said with a nod of approval.

Isabella turned to see a chestnut mare approaching the blacksmith and his forge. The horse was limping slightly, and a boy with dark hair was riding it. Indeed, it seemed more that the horse carried the boy than that he commanded its course, for he was too small for a mare of such size. Hermes straightened and sniffed the air, moving toward the mare with a determination that would not be stopped.

“So, we shall go the long way, then,” the stable hand muttered to the horse, not having any real choice in the matter. “And you shall have to wait longer for an apple, by your own choice.” His warning made no difference to Hermes. The horse began to prance, arching his neck high and lifting his tail, showing off for the mare.

The mare ignored him.

Isabella didn’t recognize the boy on the mare, but she knew the horse. She was sure of it, although she could not name the beast. The smith frowned in his turn as he watched the horse. Isabella returned to the smith’s side.

“I know this horse,” she said quietly. “But not the rider.”

“Aye, Lady Isabella, as do I,” the blacksmith replied softly. “But I cannot think of who should be riding this mare.” He flicked a glance at the cloaked man, then cast her a smile. “Too many horses and too many market days. Who is to say she has not been sold?”

Isabella smiled in her turn, unpersuaded. “You speak rightly in that, Master Smith.”

The boy halted the horse before the blacksmith. “She has need of a shoe,” he said, his voice breathless. His gaze darted over the people in the vicinity and visibly panicked when he realized there was a line.

Why was he afraid?

The smith appeared to be suspicious now, as well. He took his time, as was often his choice when he awaited the fullness of a tale. “I see as much.” He put down his hammer and fed the fire in the forge, working with rare leisure. Then he brushed his hands on his apron and came into the street. He walked around the horse, openly assessing the animal. “She cannot be yours.” He said this lightly, as if there was no question, and the boy shook his head before he thought.

The boy swallowed, his manner uncertain. “My master’s steed, sir.”

The smith placed his hands upon his hips. “And what might be the name of your master?”

“Sir Emory of Tuckford.”

Isabella did not recognize the name or the estate.

She did notice that the cloaked man stepped away from the far wall. He eased closer to a wagon loaded with hay that had been left at the side of the road. Doubtless it was hay intended for the smith, for some horses were always stabled with him. The stable hand walked a reluctant Hermes past the mare, the stallion fighting the bit once again.

The boy on the mare took a shaking breath. “My master is not known in these parts, but his horse is fine.”

“And no one should ride her in this state, even one so small as you.” The blacksmith gestured imperiously and the boy dismounted, still holding the reins of the horse.

“But she does not like to be lead.”

“Nor do any of us,” the smith murmured and the men waiting in line chuckled.

“My master thought it would be best if I rode her, for I am smallest.” The boy, who was younger than Isabella, continued, the words spilling forth in such haste that they had no ring of truth. “My master visits this region, you see.”

“And where is he, that his steed is sent ahead of him?” the smith asked, examining the hoof with care. “That he does not care for her welfare? She is a fair investment, I would wager.”

“He, he, awaits me at an inn...”

“There is no inn for ten miles,” Isabella interjected. “Strange that you would bring the steed to Kinfairlie when other smiths would be closer.” She smiled. “Since your master is evidently so concerned for the beast’s welfare.”

The smith flicked a warning glance at her.

The boy’s eyes widened. “My master heard that the smith of Kinfairlie was the best...”

“I have no dispute with that,” Isabella said, “only with the treatment of the steed. No man of merit sees a steed injured by choice. She should have been tended at the closest forge, lest she suffer a greater injury. She could have been lamed, being ridden ten miles in this state!”

The boy flushed.

The smith watched, his expression inscrutable.

The man in the cloak eased closer.

“My master intends to greet the king at Melrose,” the boy said, stammering slightly as he felt his tale unraveling. “He intends to pledge his fealty again and for that, would ensure his steeds are in good health.”

That would not be for several months, and Isabella might have said as much but she recalled the horse’s rider then.

“The king!” she exclaimed. She turned to the smith. “This is the steed of the king’s messenger, the one who brought tidings that the king would be at Melrose.”

The smith nodded vigorous agreement. “You are right, my lady! I knew I had seen the horse before, and that messenger has oft ridden to Kinfairlie. And he was robbed last night of his horse in Kinfairlie’s woods.” He spun on the boy. “Who is your master in truth, lad?”

The boy’s expression turned to horror. He made to leap for the saddle, but the smith seized the bridle and held fast. The mare shied at the boy’s sudden movement, throwing her head back to whinny. Her reaction proved to Isabella that she did not know the boy and certainly had not been groomed by him. One great hoof lifted and Isabella feared she would rear. The blacksmith whispered to the horse even as her eyes rolled and she bared her teeth.

The boy fled down Kinfairlie’s main road.

“Hoy! Thief!” the smith shouted after him. His apprentices dropped their labors to run in the direction of their master’s pointing finger.

At the smith’s shout, the agitated mare did rear. Her massive hooves pawed at the air as she snapped the bridle free from the blacksmith’s grip. He leapt after her, talking quickly and calmly, but she stamped and shied, nostrils flaring. Further down the road, Hermes snorted and neighed, trying to haul the stable hand back toward the mare. People backed away from those two horses, while the remaining horses fought their bits. In a heartbeat, chaos had erupted around the smith’s forge.

The boy meanwhile fled down the street, the smith’s apprentices fast on his heels. Did he know Murdoch? Isabella had to have the truth of it from his own lips. She raced after the apprentices, passing the boy who led Hermes.

Then she froze in realization. The stranger wore a dark cloak, one that flared in the wind.

Murdoch! Isabella heard a clatter behind her and looked back in time to see that the stranger had shoved the loaded wagon so it rolled into the road, blocking any others who might have followed. He raced toward her and his hood fell back.

Murdoch’s reckless grin flashed and his eyes danced with merriment, as if this was a great jest. Isabella did not know whether to be relieved that he was hale, or terrified that he was within her brother’s own village. Murdoch showed no hesitation. He snatched the reins from the stable hand’s grip and vaulted on to the back of Hermes in one fluid move. Before Isabella could respond, he had given the stallion his heels and snatched her up by the waist as he rode past.

“Murdoch!” she said in wonder as he dropped her into his own lap. He locked one arm around her waist, crushing her against his heat and strength. Hermes tossed his head and bolted, his energy finding sudden and welcome release. “You sent back the horse!”

“It was not mine to keep.” Murdoch grinned. “And she did not walk ten miles without her shoe. Only from Kinfairlie’s forest.”

Isabella was relieved and her heart warmed that Murdoch had shown a care for the creature that echoed her own.

“Hold fast, my lady,” he murmured with a wink. “I will see Gavin away safely, but cannot promise the ride will be smooth.”

Isabella twisted to look at the winding road ahead, saw the boys darting through the crowd, and knew he spoke the truth.

Hermes galloped down the road with abandon and once he had begun to run, Isabella doubted any man could stop him. He was a large destrier and opinionated about his choices. Murdoch laughed and let the horse have its lead.

They made a fine pair, indeed, both reckless and enjoying the moment.

“Do not injure this horse,” Isabella muttered and Murdoch’s arm tightened around her, holding her fast in a way that sent shivers of delight running through her.

“He is too clever for that,” Murdoch murmured. “I find that he is not the only one in Kinfairlie whose cleverness I come to rely upon.”

She looked up at the sparkle of his blue eyes and her heart thumped in a most painful way. Her gaze dropped to his lips, to that dangerous smile, and Isabella yearned for another kiss.

“In time, my lady,” Murdoch whispered, evidently reading her thoughts. “First matters first.”

It was purely for her own safety that Isabella wrapped an arm around Murdoch’s waist.

Or so she would insist to Alexander later.

Chapter Six

Gavin was quick, but so were the apprentices.

And Murdoch quickly realized that they knew Kinfairlie village as Gavin did not.

Still the boy used his advantage well. Gavin reached the main square and flung a barrel at the closest of the smith’s apprentices. That boy was flattened by the impact, though the second leapt over the barrel to continue the chase across the square.

Murdoch coaxed the stallion to gallop after them. It leapt over apprentice and barrel with powerful ease, snorting and tossing its head as it ran after the boys. Villagers took one look and retreated into their homes, which was by far the safer option. Isabella, to Murdoch’s pride, did not cower but held fast and watched avidly.

Gavin pushed carts and tipped bins of grain as he fled across the square, trying to obstruct the other boys. The stallion was a marvel—as black as ebony and more powerful than any horse Murdoch had ever ridden, it reacted instinctively and needed no guidance. It leapt every obstacle with enviable grace, and seemed to enjoy the run as much as Murdoch did.

Just before the chapel, Gavin grabbed the pillar that held an awning over the cart of the alewife. The fabric awning fell, and she shouted in dismay that it dipped into her ale. Patrons surged forward to help and the smith’s boy had his path obstructed. Hermes pivoted and turned back, cantering in the square in frustration. Murdoch spied the crowd from the smith’s forge surging down that road toward them.

Isabella smiled.

“Tell me,” Murdoch murmured in her ear, pulling her more tightly against himself.

She cast him a defiant glance. “I should not aid renegades and thieves.”

“But you are the captive of a renegade and, surely, in fear for your very life.” Isabella glanced up in obvious surprise, but Murdoch grinned. “No one need know that you are safer with me than anywhere else.”

Her expression softened as she held his gaze, then she swallowed. “He has taken the right path around the chapel. The baker always has a line in the morning, and his shop is in that lane. Your boy will not get through there quickly.”

The other apprentice raced down the lane to the left of the chapel, evidently knowing the same thing.

“See? The paths meet ahead, but the smith’s boy will reach the intersection first.”

Murdoch turned Hermes to gallop down the lane the apprentice had taken and Isabella caught her breath. “It is too narrow!” she complained but Hermes was already racing down it.

It was a narrow passage, plus one with pots and sacks on either side. Murdoch let the reins go slack, giving Hermes full freedom to choose as he must. Isabella stared at him in horror, but Murdoch tightened his legs around the horse and grabbed two fistfuls of the horse’s loose mane, locking the lady within his embrace. She took one look at his choice, then entwined her hands in the stallion’s mane as well.

Meanwhile, the smith’s boy evidently heard the horse approaching. He turned back to look, then his eyes widened in terror. He leapt into an open doorway in the nick of time and a woman screamed within that abode. Hermes thundered past the doorway and Murdoch caught a glimpse of the astonishment on the apprentice’s face.

Murdoch chuckled. “This is a magnificent steed. Perhaps I should keep him.”

“You will be gutted before your own eyes, should you steal a steed of this ilk.” Isabella said, her tone suddenly cross. “Have you no care for your own welfare?”

Murdoch laughed. “Have you a care for my welfare, my lady?”

“My brother hunts you on this day—and you would provoke him further!”

Murdoch leaned closer, murmuring against her ear, and felt her shiver. “But he has not caught me yet, has he?” He liked the sign that he was not the only one with heat in his veins when they were together. And truly, it warmed more than his body to know that Isabella feared for his welfare.

“I pray to God that he does not,” she contented herself with saying and Murdoch found himself smiling.

The steed galloped into the smaller square that marked the intersection of the two lanes behind the chapel, Murdoch halting Hermes with a flourish so that the stallion faced down the path Gavin had taken. The boy came racing into the square, grinned at Murdoch, then ducked beneath the horse to keep on running. Hermes snorted and stamped but held his ground.

Those from the smith’s forge surged up the lane, hesitating when they saw Murdoch on Hermes and holding Isabella apparently captive.

Several villagers came out of their homes, one of them raising his voice. “What goes on here?” His cry brought his neighbors to their doors and windows.

“A thief!” cried the apprentice. “The thief of the messenger’s horse.”

“And what of this one?” roared another man. “He steals the laird’s own horse and seizes the lady Isabella.”

“We seek only justice from Kinfairlie,” Murdoch said. “The justice of a stolen relic returned to its rightful owner. Should you know the truth of it, you have but to tell me.”

“And who might you be?” bellowed one.

“I am Murdoch Seton.” Murdoch smiled. “And should you seek me out with such tidings, I guarantee you will find me.”

“You are a fool,” Isabella muttered.

Murdoch only laughed. The crowd surged forward, anger driving them closer. Hermes pranced in his impatience to run.

“And I am no thief!” Gavin shouted from the other side of the small square. “For I no longer have any spoils!”

With that, he flung a handful of coins into the square, just as Murdoch had instructed him. The silver danced and spun, scattering across the beaten earth. The villagers dove for the money, even as the crowd from the smith’s lunged for the small square.

There was congestion and chaos immediately, sufficient that Gavin fled without anyone noticing him. Murdoch turned Hermes, then gave the stallion his heels. The horse raced for the town’s perimeter, villagers scrambling out of his path. Murdoch saw Gavin leap into the ditch beside the road, waving gaily before he ducked into the hedgerows and disappeared.

The boy was quick. And none would note him now.

Murdoch clicked his teeth to Hermes, tugging the horse in the opposite direction from Kinfairlie’s forest, toward the coast. “And we shall go this way,” he said, urging the horse to run. The beast did exactly that, leaping over the small stone boundary that marked the edge of the village.

The crowd burst from the village and clustered at the wall in consultation. Ultimately they would give chase, Murdoch knew, deciding that retrieving the laird’s horse and his sister were more important than catching a young boy.

Isabella looked over Murdoch’s shoulder and he saw her bite her lip. “He is your squire?”

Murdoch nodded. “Gavin is his name.”

“He runs for the forest,” she said, glancing up at him. “While all pursue you. Is this as you planned?”

“Not precisely,” Murdoch admitted, realizing that all had gone far better than he had hoped. He had never expected to have Isabella to himself again, much less so soon, and he could not find fault with the situation. He smiled at her. “I had hoped that he would not be questioned, but I come to see, my lady, that when in Kinfairlie, I must allow for your quick tongue.”

“Me?” Isabella flushed as he watched.

“You recognized the horse and were unafraid to say as much.”

“I did not mean to make trouble for you...”

“No. You meant to see justice served in the end, just as I do, which is why we understand each other so well.” Murdoch looked down into the clear green of her eyes and let his voice fall low. “Are we two of a kind, my Isabella?”

The lady flushed, her gaze dropping to his lips, even as she caught her breath. “I am not your Isabella,” she insisted, her words breathless. He heard the desire in her voice and was surprised to feel an answering desire within himself.

“Yet,” Murdoch murmured. He spoke on impulse, but knew truth when he heard it. He would make this lady his own. Murdoch watched surprise dawn in Isabella’s eyes at his assertion.

When she smiled up at him, clearly at ease with the notion, Murdoch did the only thing he could have done under the circumstance.

He bent and kissed her thoroughly.

* * *

Murdoch’s kiss was even more potent the second time.

Isabella could not believe it.

Even more astonishing, his touch awakened a hunger within her that she had never guessed she possessed. She found herself not only opening her mouth to his kiss, but winding her arms around his neck and arching against his chest. He angled his head, slanting his mouth over hers with a possessive ease that thrilled her.

Murdoch meant to make her his own! He was a knight and a man of honor, just as she had known him to be. He had sent the mare to the smith, when it would have been easier—and safer—to ride her away. He had sent Gavin, who was less likely to be recognized, but he had not abandoned the boy. And he had boldly drawn the ire of the villagers to himself, using his wits to ensure that Gavin escaped unscathed. The boy had only done his master’s bidding, after all, and Isabella admired that Murdoch had protected his squire.

He was bold and daring, a little reckless, but honorable.

It would suit her well to be claimed by this man. Isabella kissed him back, welcoming his ardent embrace, until Murdoch lifted his head. His eyes fairly glowed as he looked down at her, and he smiled in that roguish way that made her heart skip. “My dauntless Isabella,” he murmured, stealing a quick kiss. “Dare I hope that you have learned something of your brother’s deeds since last we met?”

The unexpected question sent a chill through Isabella. She had thought he might make another sweet confession, but still he asked after her brother.

Surely Murdoch did not make her promises only because she was of use to him? No, such doubts had no place between them. She dismissed the idea, refusing to give it any credit. He simply was a man on a quest, she had pledged to aid him, and he wanted to know what she had learned. They could not have much time before they were pursued, and he had need of her tidings.

Oddly, Isabella’s explanation did not please her as much as such practical reasoning usually did. Unwelcome doubt lingered.

All the same, she directed him toward the coast. “There are salt fens just over that ridge. No one goes there but Eleanor and me.”

“Eleanor?” Murdoch’s eyes narrowed.

“My brother’s wife. She is teaching me about the healing plants. We went there to gather roots in the fall. But she is sickened with her second child, and no one else knows how to walk in the fens. The sand is soft there, and with a mis-step, it is easy to sink too deeply to continue.”

“Perhaps not the best place for a destrier of such size as this one.”

Isabella liked that again, he was concerned for the steed. “I know a place where the footing is solid, yet we shall be hidden.” She pointed. “Just ahead here, there is a break in the hill that will make the descent easier for Hermes.”

To her relief, Murdoch followed her direction, though he glanced back once toward the village. Isabella did as well, though she saw no real signs of pursuit.

That did not mean there would not be one.

* * *

The salt fens always seemed to be a magical place to Isabella. They were remote from Kinfairlie village, well beyond the tilled fields and even beyond those that remained perpetually in fallow.

She explained to Murdoch as they rode that the fields of Kinfairlie had been sown with salt once by an invading army, and Alexander had continued their father’s quest of gradually reclaiming the land. It took time, though, for the salt to leech away so that crops could be grown again. Her father’s scheme had been to set up dykes and flood specified fields repeatedly for a number of years, then to move them into tillage, and build dykes in the next allotment.

Snared between those remaining untilled fields of Kinfairlie and the ocean itself, the salt fens filled a low flat basin that did not drain overly well. At the far side of the low land was the sea, and its salt water fed the wetlands. The last mile to the sea was low and marshy, filled with an abundance of birds and often shrouded in fog.

But here, tall reeds grew and sound seemed to disappear. The fens could have been a place out of time. The previous autumn, when she had come with Eleanor, Isabella had learned of useful roots that grew in this place. There had been only the sound of the birds and the rustle of the reeds as the sun beat down upon the pair of them as they worked.

On this day, the reeds looked to be etched with silver, for there was frost along the length of each leaf. The shallow water, which would not support the weight of one who stepped in the wrong place, glittered in the light. The sky was pewter overhead and the wind was still, seeing that they were in the lee of that low hill and the wind of late had blown from inland with uncharacteristic persistence. Isabella did not realize how much that fey wind at Kinfairlie had troubled her until she and Murdoch rode down to the silence of the fens.

They were utterly alone. She was keenly aware of the weight of Murdoch’s hand on her waist, the feel of his thighs behind hers, his breath in her hair. She tingled in anticipation of another kiss or even a bolder caress.

Murdoch guided the horse where Isabella indicated, and she liked that he trusted her judgment so readily. “There is a rise, like an island and a cluster of old rocks are hidden there,” she said. “It is almost straight ahead but we must take a circuitous path to it. I will lead Hermes to ensure his footing.”

Murdoch nodded and halted. He dismounted, then listened for a long moment, his stillness echoing that of the fens. He smiled at her when he reached to lift her from Hermes’ back. His hands fitted around her waist and his gaze locked with hers. They could have been alone in the world and Isabella could not find it in her heart to mind.

What if there had been only they two? What if she had not feared for her brother’s sense of justice, and Murdoch had not been driven to retrieve his family’s relic? What if there had been only Murdoch and herself, and all the time in Christendom? In this place at this moment, Isabella could imagine that wondrous possibility.

The solitude of the place seemed to strike Murdoch, as well, for he was not quick to lift his hands from her waist and he spoke in a whisper when she stood before him. “Surely you do not come here alone?” he asked, his concern making Isabella smile. “It is a most strange and solitary place.”

“Like a secret,” she agreed and he nodded. “I have never been here alone. Only with Eleanor.” She followed his gaze back to the low rise behind them. “We must hide, while we can.”

Murdoch nodded and she claimed Hermes’ reins to lead the stallion through the reeds, ensuring that the great horse stepped where the ground was solid. To her relief, Hermes did not sink deeply into the sand, and he was tired from his run—thus more biddable. He followed her with rare docility, only his hooves becoming wet.

Murdoch followed her without question. When she found the hidden rise, a clearing about twenty feet in width, Isabella turned to watch Murdoch. It seemed unreal to her that this place should exist, and the five massive stones that tumbled against each other could have been as old as time. Murdoch’s expression was as awed as hers had undoubtedly been the first time she had found it. As he surveyed the haven, Isabella looked fully upon him.

He was every bit as well wrought as she recalled, tall and strong and broad of shoulder. Murdoch did not wear his armor any longer, although that dark cloak still floated behind him. He was clothed all in dark cloth, his tabard and chausses nearly as black as his boots and his gloves. He would be one with the shadows in this garb. His arms were folded across his chest and those eyes, those eyes were of the most uncanny sapphire hue.

“A lost island,” he murmured.

“But still sound carries well,” Isabella advised him, touching her finger to her lips.

“It is an excellent place, all the same,” he said with such pleasure that she felt herself blush a bit. He looped Hermes’ reins over his back and the steed wandered, sniffing at the rocks and crannies. He watched the horse for a moment, then appeared to be satisfied that he would stay close. He turned that bright gaze upon Isabella again. “And you found it because you learn the trade of a healer?”

Isabella smiled. “I do learn it. Eleanor says I have a gift.”

“How uncommon for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“To have a gift or to learn this craft?”

“Both!” Murdoch regarded her as if she were a marvel. “Why would you do such a thing?” He asked as if mystified by her choice, but not condemning it.

“Because I erred once, and would not do so again.”

His eyes glinted. “How so?”

“When Alexander courted Eleanor, I thought to play a jest upon him. You must understand that he was always the prankster of our family, and he had made matches that year for my two older sisters without their consent. We contrived to teach him a lesson when Eleanor came to our gates and had need of a husband.”

“But?” Murdoch prompted when Isabella fell silent.

“It was my idea, though Eleanor was agreeable. I thought we would give him a potion that made him sleep, then lock the pair of them in the solar together for the night.”

“In the morn, he would think he had sampled the lady’s charms...”

“And would take the course of honor, for that is his nature.”

“Lady Eleanor was amenable to this?”

“Indeed she was, although it was much later that we learned the full reason why. At any rate, a healer mixed the brew who was vexed with Alexander.” Isabella swallowed, still embarrassed by her role. “Alexander might have died, had it not been for Eleanor’s intervention. She has skill with herbs. I asked to learn her art, so that I might never unwittingly endanger another again.”

Murdoch smiled, admiration in his eyes. “There are not many who take a lesson so well.”

Isabella was unable to hold his gaze. “I like it better than embroidery.”

“You do not like to embroider?” He took a step closer and she was achingly aware of him.

She shrugged. “I do it well, but it seems that there are more important deeds to do.”

He smiled, looking wicked and unpredictable. “You could wed and have sons.”

“Nothing says I will not.” Isabella chose to meet his gaze anew.

Murdoch regarded her with a warmth that made her simmer deep inside. His voice dropped low and Isabella could not fully catch her breath beneath his intense scrutiny. He stepped closer and lifted a tendril of her hair, twining it around his gloved finger. The copper of her hair gleamed against the black leather, and she fancied for a moment that she was tethered to him.

She thought of Elizabeth’s ribbons in that moment and wondered.

“No, nothing says you will not,” he murmured, fingering that tendril of her hair. She hoped he would kiss her again, believed he would, then realized she had to tell him what she had learned first.

“Alexander knew of the thefts,” she said. “I found the evidence. But if he could name the thief, he would see justice served.”

Murdoch’s gaze brightened. “You found what evidence?”

“I read his correspondence this morn. And I checked the treasury. There is nothing there that should not be there. Alexander keeps all items of value in one place or the other, so he does not have the relics.”

Murdoch’s smile broadened and Isabella’s heart clenched. “I did not realize than any man’s correspondence could be viewed by another, much less that his treasury could be inventoried. Surely these treasures are secured?”

“I took the keys, of course. I did not keep them.”

Murdoch chuckled. “I took the horse but did not keep it. Again, we have much in common, my Isabella.”

His light words made her fear for his welfare once again. “But you have stolen from the king’s own messenger...” Isabella fell silent when Murdoch laid that finger across her lips. She stared at him and could have lost herself in his gaze.

“What if I told you that I kept none of the spoils?” he whispered, leaning down so that his forehead nearly touched hers. “What if I told you that the coins cast by my boy were those of the messenger, given unto the people of Kinfairlie village for their pleasure?” His voice dropped lower yet and Isabella felt her desire for his kiss burn with new vigor. “What if I told you, my lady Isabella, that I mean no harm other than to prompt your brother’s reluctant memory?”

Isabella could not draw a breath. “It does not matter. He will see you scarred for this deed, regardless of your intent.”

Murdoch regarded her with curiosity. “Is this the root of it? Do you care so much for my welfare?” His reaction annoyed Isabella.

“Why should I not care for your welfare? Or do you tell me that you do not care for my welfare, that I am merely of use to you?”

Once she had given voice to her fear, she could not take back the words. She saw the surprise in Murdoch’s eyes, but disliked that he did not deny the charge.

Surely she was mistaken?

Surely he would tell her as much, if so.

When he said nothing, Isabella pivoted. She would have walked away from him, this infuriating man with his confidence and his beguiling voice, but Murdoch caught her shoulders in his hands. She felt him lean down and closed her eyes at the surety of his grip upon her.

“I do not mock you,” Murdoch murmured with quiet heat. “You are most unexpected, my Isabella, and I am utterly beguiled.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “I am humbled that you have a care for my welfare, and do not imagine that I do not fear for yours.”

The sincerity in his tone brought tears to her eyes. Isabella swallowed and lifted her hand to cover his. He entwined their fingers then, holding her tightly before him. “Prove it to me,” she whispered, wanting some token from him.

“How? Ask of me what you will.”

Isabella turned in his embrace, meeting his gaze with new confidence. “Pledge that you will not rob any travelers in Kinfairlie’s forest.”

Murdoch frowned. “But...”

Isabella put a fingertip over his lips to silence him. “If my brother truly held the relic, your ploy might succeed. But he does not, and he does not know of the perpetrator. All you achieve is to make yourself a hunted man.” His gaze brightened and she had to avert her own, so suddenly aware was she that she stood within his embrace. “I would not see you injured, not for any price.”

“Then I pledge it to you,” Murdoch said, his voice low with conviction. Isabella glanced up with welcome surprise, for she had not been sure he would do any such thing. “What choice have I when you ask it of me?”

Isabella gasped and smiled. Murdoch’s gaze danced over her, then he bent and brushed his lips across hers. That single caress left Isabella tingling. Her body hummed like the string of a bow after the arrow had been fired, and she could not think as clearly as she might have liked. The sensation was so pleasurable that she only wanted more.

“You are not the only one beguiled, Murdoch,” she admitted, her voice uncommonly husky, and his fingers tightened around hers. “There is one last place I would look to ensure that the relics are not within Kinfairlie’s bounds,” she said quickly. “The crypt in the chapel in the village is the only other place the relics could be secured. I was going there when Gavin brought back the horse.”

“With the bell tower?”

Isabella nodded. “I will check the crypt but if the relics are not there, then Alexander does not have them.”

“Still there remains the question of who he might protect.”

“I cannot believe that if he knew the thief, he would not see that person brought to justice.” She turned to look up at Murdoch, only to find his expression thoughtful.

“Even if it was your brother Ross?”

“Even so,” Isabella said with conviction. “My father instilled a love of justice in all of us.”

Murdoch nodded and frowned. “Where does Kinfairlie get its coin?”

“The usual sources. Taxes and tithes, fees to the court for justice.” Isabella shrugged. “Why?

“How has your brother so much of it? Kinfairlie is blessed with affluence, yet has no port, no tolls, no sheep. I cannot reconcile that affluence with its assets.”

Isabella pursed her lips. “You think he has a hidden source of revenue,” she guessed and Murdoch nodded. “I could check his ledgers.”

“It might not be listed. A wily man would not leave such evidence.”

Isabella bit her lip. She knew Alexander was not wily. “We do have a fair in the autumn and Eleanor had quite an inheritance. I think it might be honestly gained.”

“I would be certain of it,” Murdoch said with heat.

Isabella smiled at him. “Then I will check again.”

His eyes narrowed. “How much do you risk in this? Would your brother beat you if you were discovered? You must pledge to me that you will not take any chances, my Isabella.”

“But you take risks all the time!”

“That is different. I have little to lose and much to gain.”

Isabella did not fully understand that. “Alexander shouts when he is vexed. He has never struck a one of us and he never will.”

Murdoch nodded. “And he defends his holding as my father would have done. That does not mean, though, that he has not been deceived.” He bent and brushed his lips across hers once again, lingering over the touch. Such a fleeting kiss was not enough, not now. She wanted to kiss him fully and deeply—if not more.

Isabella found herself leaning against Murdoch’s chest, placing her hands on his shoulders, stretching to her toes. Her lips parted in anticipation as Murdoch drew her closer, his eyes darkening with intent.

“My lady, you light a fire that might not be easily dampened,” he whispered, as if to warn her. Isabella did not care. She could see the heat in his eyes and feel his desire against her belly. She knew he wanted her, yet he did not force himself upon her. Indeed, he halted to ensure that she knew what she chose.

Because he was precisely the manner of man she had believed him to be. He might tease her. He might be more daring than most. He might take risks and he might challenge authority. But his heart was true and his love of justice was as sure as her own.

And he would be her knight.

For Isabella was fully aware of what she chose. She stretched to her toes, slid her hands around Murdoch’s neck and kissed him fully.

She felt Murdoch’s surprise, for he was motionless for a heartbeat. Then his hand slid up her throat, his fingers locking behind her nape to hold her close. His other arm wound around her waist, lifting her against him, crushing her against his chest as he deepened his kiss.

He was less gentle than he had been before, but Isabella did not mind. This was honest and true, passion that could not be denied. Isabella closed her eyes, dizzy at the rush of sensation. She twined her fingers into his hair and met him touch for touch, echoing his every move.

With her participation, Murdoch’s kiss became more demanding, more ardent, more intoxicating. They created heat together and Isabella only wanted to experience more. She kissed him back, trusting his navigation of what was new and wondrous to her.

* * *

Murdoch knew he should not kiss a maiden as he kissed Isabella. He knew that she was innocent, and he knew he took advantage of her trust. His intentions were good, but the lady’s passion swept those intentions aside.

He loved how her eyes sparkled and her hair always worked its way loose of her braid. He liked how clever she was and he admired that she learned the healing arts—no small goal for any woman. He loved that she gave to those around her and took her responsibilities seriously, yet she would defy convention to see justice served. He liked the way she laughed and the array of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Never had a woman enchanted him so quickly, and Murdoch yearned to know all about her. Indeed, he wanted to go to her brother, to pledge his intent and offer for her hand.

Murdoch knew he should step away from the temptation Isabella offered, send her home to Kinfairlie’s keep, and act as the man his father had taught him to be. He should never have carried Isabella away from the village, but he could not resist her.

He had no power to deny her kiss.

And he wanted to see her find her pleasure. Indeed, he could have justified it as a reward for all she had done for him, a sensory gift that he could give to her. He would give to her, but he would not take what was not his to claim.

Not until he knew that he would survive.

The press of Isabella’s sweet curves against him made his flesh heat and the chill in his chest vanish. Her passion in itself was irresistible, a lure that drew him like a moth to the flame.

She was alive and vital and mortal.

Murdoch found his hand curved around her breast, caressing the shape of it. Isabella moaned when he slid his palm over her nipple, so he did it again, teasing her nipple to a taut peak through the layers of cloth. She gasped, then pulled him closer, slanting her mouth across his in perfect echo of how he had claimed her with a kiss. Her desire took his own to a fever pitch, and her innocence made him want to teach her all he knew.

Slowly.

Even as his body demanded speed.

Murdoch was undoing the laces at the sides of her kirtle before he knew what he was about, wanting to feel her bare skin beneath his hands. He broke their kiss and slid his hands beneath the heavy wool of the kirtle. There was only the sheer fabric of her chemise between his hands and her smooth skin, and it was far too much of an obstacle. Murdoch held her gaze as he let his hands glide over her smooth strength, finally halting to cup those breasts again. She was all smoothness and silk, fair and wondrous and perfect.

Her lips parted and she whispered his name, but she did not pull away.

Murdoch was both humbled and aroused by her trust. He smiled down at her as he held her close and caressed her breast with one hand. He rolled her nipple between his index finger and thumb, teasing it to a point. Isabella caught her breath and stared at him in wonder, her lips red and soft, her eyes wide and full of stars. She flushed and his awareness that this was all new to her made it new for him.

He wanted to see her nude, her hair unbound and her lips curved in a welcoming smile. He wanted to have her in the forest, on a cloak, on a pallet before the fire, in the darkness and in the sunlight. He wanted to watch her gasp and to hold her close as the release washed over her body. He wanted to see Isabella find her pleasure a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

He wanted to embark on that quest immediately.

She whispered his name again and swallowed. Her nipple was tight and hard, a sign of her responsiveness. His maiden was not shy, for she did not draw away from pleasure, merely sought its increase. She touched his jaw with her fingertips, watching as her hands eased over his ears and into his hair.

“Oh, Murdoch,” she whispered, her voice husky.

Murdoch could not resist her. He bent and kissed Isabella deeply, welcoming her passion. When she sighed and surrendered to his touch, he knew he could wait no longer. He broke his kiss and swept her loosened kirtle aside, then bent to take that tight peak in his mouth. She gasped when his mouth locked over her, then moaned with pleasure as he suckled her.

He cradled her against himself and sat on one great rock so that she lounged across his lap, never ceasing his kiss. He could guarantee that the lady held the memory of him tightly in her thoughts—and he could do so without taking a thing from her. He slid his hand over her knee and up the silken skin of her thigh. Isabella gasped when his fingers touched the tangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.

He lifted his head and smiled at her, savoring the wonder in her expression. He loved how disheveled and pleased she looked already, and knew she would soon be more so. He slid his fingers between her legs, smiling more broadly at the slick heat he found there. She was aroused already and her breath came more quickly.

“I shall do all that needs to be done,” he vowed to her. “Simply savor it.” Her lips parted, looking so lush and soft that he could not resist her. He bent and kissed her slowly, swallowing her gasp of pleasure when his fingers found the pearl between her thighs. Isabella shuddered from head to toe, but she parted her legs and pulled him closer for another kiss.

Chapter Seven

Murdoch was more tempting than should be humanly possible. Isabella knew what she should do and knew what was sensible and right. But this man had only to smile that slow smile at her, to let the wicked glint dawn in his blue eyes, or to touch a fingertip to her, and Isabella could think of nothing other than his kiss. The pleasure he conjured with his touch drove all practical matters from Isabella’s thoughts.

Her kirtle was unlaced and his hands were beneath her chemise, his fingers kindling wondrous new sensations. She felt wanton, for she could deny him nothing, and indeed, she wanted more. He touched her with surety, at first gently, then with more demand. She had no doubt that he knew precisely what he did to her, for a tumult rose within her unlike anything she had ever felt before. He coaxed her to lean back on the great rock, the sky arching chill and blue overhead, and Murdoch’s caress making her burn with desire.

His kiss tormented and teased her, tempting her to give him more and more. He murmured her name, his voice rough with a desire that made her heart pound. He looked down at her, his eyes glittering as his fingers worked their magic.

“Next time, we shall meet abed,” he whispered to her, his voice dark with an intent that thrilled her. “Next time, I shall do this with my mouth, with my tongue and my teeth and my breath.” He flicked a finger across her and she gasped in pleasure. “Next time, I shall take you fully and claim you as my own.”

Murdoch’s voice dropped to a growl, his intensity making Isabella’s very blood heat. “I would bed you in furs and velvet,” he vowed and her heart thundered at the possibility. “I would bed you in sunlight and in moonlight, I would bed you in darkness and in day, I would bed you in the morning and in the afternoon.”

“In the stables and the meadow,” Isabella gasped, loving how he smiled. The tumult rose within her, as Murdoch conjured it with skill. Isabella was content to do as he had bidden, though truly, she thought she could not bear more pleasure. She fairly danced upon his wicked fingers and he grinned at her, tormenting her so that the heat doubled and redoubled beneath her skin.

“Indeed,” he whispered. “Make no mistake, my Isabella, I would bed you every day and every night for the rest of our lives.” He pinched her clitoris then, his fingers moving with quick and gentle force.

Isabella cried out as his touch cast her over the edge and into the abyss, shivers of pleasure cascading through her body and leaving her trembling in his arms. He caught her close and kissed her deeply. Isabella clutched fistfuls of his hair, wanting to merge their bodies into one, to have more of him, even all of him, and to have it with all haste. She wanted him naked, his skin pressed against hers and his strength inside her. Although he had given her pleasure, she ached for more.

It was when Murdoch pulled her closer, tucking her head against his shoulder, that she saw the mark upon his left wrist. He had lifted his head and was listening avidly to something she could not discern.

Isabella caught his hand in hers and studied the blue whorl in confusion. She had never seen the like of it. “What is this?” It could not be a malady, for it looked so deliberate in design, as if a scribe had drawn on his flesh.

Her question seemed to trouble him, for he became curt. “It is nothing,” Murdoch said, putting her on her feet with unceremonious haste. “I hear horses.” He strode to Hermes, taking undue interest in the beast’s bridle.

“I do not.” Isabella stared at his back, startled by his change of mood. She straightened her garb, though she would have preferred to have lingered with Murdoch.

“Listen!”

Isabella followed him, less interested in pursuit than his dismissive tone. “If it is a malady, perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“It cannot be healed.” Murdoch spoke dismissively, his eyes narrowed as if he would hide his thoughts from her. She noted that he tugged at his left sleeve.

The mark troubled him.

Why? What was it?

“You cannot be certain of that until we try,” Isabella said mildly. “Has anyone tried to heal it?”

“No. And no one shall, for it cannot be healed.”

“Where did you get it? When did it begin?”

“It is not of import!” he said through his teeth, his eyes flashing. “You must ride out, immediately.” He locked his hands together to create a step for her to mount Hermes, and fixed her with a determined glance.

“But what of you?”

“I will ensure my own survival.”

Isabella could not understand his manner. He spoke to her as if she were a stranger, not a woman he had kissed and touched with such intimacy just moments before. He gave her a hard look. “And when shall I see you again? Where shall I find you?”

“You may not.” One moment he spoke of the future as if it were assured, but the next he looked intent upon fleeing her side. “Ride out, before it is too late.”

Isabella regarded him for a long moment, then stepped into his locked hands and swung up into the saddle.

“Can you manage him?”

She looked Murdoch in the eye. “You cast me from your side, yet suddenly show concern for my welfare. What ails you in truth, Murdoch? Will you not confide in me?”

“I would if it would make a difference,” Murdoch said, his tone softening. “It is cursed complicated, Isabella.”

That he no longer called her his Isabella made his intentions most clear.

“No, it is simple,” Isabella snapped. “Simple enough that even I can see the truth of it. I have been useful to you, no more than that, and now you would dismiss me. Was that caress your payment?”

Murdoch had the grace to wince, but Isabella was too annoyed with him to care. She clucked to the horse, which recalled the way out of the fen well enough. Hermes sank to his ankles once or twice, but they moved with enough speed that they were soon cresting the rise again. Once level with the fields, she realized it was Alexander’s party who rode toward her, her brother at the lead. He looked to be terrified and urged his horse to greater speed when he saw her.

Isabella smiled and waved to reassure him, and did not look back. She would not give Murdoch’s location away.

She would save him and she would heal him. That mark on his flesh was at the root of his change of mood. And Isabella was going to find out what it was.

One way or the other.

* * *

Murdoch could not court Isabella.

There could be no more telling reminder than the marks that claimed his own flesh, yet in the presence of Isabella, Murdoch had forgotten the Elphine Queen, the clutch she had upon him, her possession of his heart.

And the reality that he was doomed to either disappear into Fae or die at the next new moon.

He had no right to make sweet promises to Isabella. He had no right to dream of a future with that maiden by his side, to imagine that he could woo and win her, to make hot promises of the pleasure they would give each other.

The only mercy was that he had not taken her fully. He had not claimed her maidenhead, which surely would never be his to possess.

Murdoch was angry then, angry with the trickery of the Elphine Queen and the net in which she had snared him.

He was yet more angry that he did not know how to free himself. If only he could find Duncan’s relic and restore it to Seton Manor, perhaps his fortune would change.

Isabella’s assurances about her brother’s intent did not let him rest easy either. Murdoch followed her as swiftly as he could and climbed the rise, lying in the snow as he watched Hermes run toward the party that had given chase.

It was her brother in the lead, for Murdoch recognized the insignia on the younger man’s tabard. Isabella rode directly toward him, confident in her brother’s good nature. Murdoch fingered the hilt of his knife and wished they had been close enough that he could throw the blade in defense of his lady.

But the laird leapt from the back of his own steed and lifted his sister down. He embraced her with a relief that could be seen even at a distance, then set her on her feet and framed her face in his hands. His affection for his sister was evident, as was his intent toward her.

The lady’s confidence in her own welfare was deserved.

The laird clearly questioned her, his gaze rising to a point on the horizon far to the north, then back at his sister again. When he turned and led her back toward Kinfairlie, his arm cast over her shoulders, Murdoch knew the truth.

Isabella lied for him.

And Murdoch would take a southward path back to Kinfairlie’s forest.

The party rode back toward the village, the other horses surrounding Hermes and Isabella. Murdoch laid in the snow for a long time, ensuring that he would not be spotted when he moved. For the first time, he was assailed by doubt. Was the Laird of Kinfairlie as innocent as his sister believed? Who then was responsible for the theft of the relics? Did the brother Ross act alone? Who else could steal so many relics with such efficiency, claiming them from behind locked and guarded doors? How could any other soul know the locations of the relics without resorting to the accounting of that auction, the records now kept in the laird’s chamber of ledgers?

The locked room that only he visited. It had seemed a most reasonable conclusion to make, that the laird must be complicit, but now he wondered. Was Isabella right about her brother?

And how could Murdoch discover the truth?

* * *

Isabella had the strange sense of being a traitor within her own home as she rode back to the village beside Alexander. She had lied to her brother with an ease that had alarmed her, and Alexander had believed her so readily that she was doubly surprised. His men were in good spirits and joked with each other now that their fears for her safety were allayed.

She felt as if she had a secret, not only in knowing Murdoch’s location but in the memory of his sure touch. She felt flushed and warm, convinced that what they had done was right—and that they would do as much and more again. She knew Murdoch had meant the pledges he had made to her in that moment. It was the mark that meant something, something ill, something that frightened him. All she had to do was discover the source of that mark and see him rid of it.

Cured of it.

“Routed!” one of Alexander’s men gloated. “We saw that brigand run out of Kinfairlie’s forests.”

“Aye,” agreed another. “And his camp destroyed. Should he return, he will not find it easy to remain.”

“If he has any wits about him, he will not return,” concurred Alexander. “But I fear it will be only a matter of time.” Isabella looked straight ahead, giving no indication of her concern for Murdoch.

“Fortunate he was to evade us, that is certain.”

“You shall see he pays the price for threatening any soul on our roads, my lord.” The men laughed, confident of Alexander’s sure and swift justice, and the entire party rode into the village to cheers.

Isabella knew she had to ensure Murdoch’s safety. It was only a matter of time before he acted again—unless she unveiled the truth first. She had to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel immediately and search its crypt.

“I must check upon the Siobhan’s son and his cough,” she said to Alexander, for it was true and would also ensure that no one accompanied her. “I pledged as much to Eleanor before this all began.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly. Isabella had time to wonder whether she dared risk a trip to the chapel on her way back to the hall when one of the smith’s apprentices appeared beside Hermes.

“The smith would speak with you, my lady. He feared for your safety when we told him what had occurred.”

“You may tell him that I am well enough and thank him for his concern,” she said, not slowing her course. “I must visit the baker’s son.”

“The smith would see as much with his own eyes, my lady. I know it to be so.”

Isabella smiled for the boy, not wanting him to be chastened for failing to do as he’d been bidden. It would only take a moment to assure the smith that she was well, and then she would return to the baker’s abode. Alexander nodded agreement to this and Isabella dismounted, leaving Hermes to return to Kinfairlie’s stable with the rest of the party.

The smith spared her a glance when she arrived at his forge. It was much quieter there than earlier. The messenger’s mare was tethered to the front of his workplace, nibbling hay from the wagon.

“So, you are hale, after all,” the smith said to her after a searching glance.

“Hale enough,” Isabella agreed with a smile, wondering what the smith saw. She fought the urge to blush. “The king’s messenger will be glad to have his horse returned.”

“No more injured than lacking a shoe,” the smith noted with satisfaction. “The tale could have ended far worse.” He held Isabella’s gaze, his own dark. “It is not every thief who would ensure the welfare of a stolen horse, despite what some might believe. I have seen horses sorely used by brigands and renegades.” He frowned at his work, running his finger around the new shoe. “My boy says the lad had coin, so perhaps he even intended to pay for the shoe.”

“Perhaps he did.”

“This renegade in the forest could have sent the horse to another village, one more distant where she would not have been recognized. It would have ensured his anonymity, but would have caused the horse pain.” The smith met her gaze again. “I cannot find it in my heart, my lady, to despise a man who ensures the welfare of a horse over his own.”

“Nor I,” Isabella agreed, her words breathless.

“He did not need to ensure that the boy escaped unscathed—and were he truly as black-hearted as one might expect, he would not have done so.”

“Indeed.”

“It seems a selfless deed, to ensure the welfare of a horse and that of a squire, even while risking one’s own safety.” The smith nodded. “A selfless deed.” The words had a curious resonance the way he uttered them, as if they were of great significance.

But Isabella did not understand.

“A selfless deed? Of what import is that?”

“It is an ingredient from an old spell. Three selfless deeds will set a condemned man free, as I recall it.” The smith turned back to his forge, poking at the fire to make it burn brighter.

“Truly? What manner of condemned man?”

He flicked her a look. “Do you know what you ask, my lady?”

Isabella guessed. “Does such condemnation have to do with blue lines on a man’s flesh?”

The smith caught his breath in alarm. “So, that explains it,” he murmured to himself.

“Explains what, Master Smith? What do you know? I entreat you to share it with me.”

He eyed her for a moment, glanced up and down the lane, then lowered his voice. “I cannot speak of it,” he muttered. “Not without damning myself to some trouble or other. But this I can say. My lady, the tidings from the hall is that you learn skill with herbs, from Lady Eleanor.”

“Indeed, I do,” Isabella agreed, wondering that he should note this.

“Have you learned of the powers of wild thyme?”

Isabella shook her head and repeated her knowledge, for thyme was no herb of mystical powers. “The thyme we grow in the keep garden is primarily for the kitchen. It is best paired with roasted meat, though Eleanor says it can aid with nightmares, digestion and shyness.” She smiled. “It is a symbol of chivalry, because of its association with courage.”

The smith did not smile. “It is the other thyme I ask about. The one with smaller leaves that grows on hill banks and creeps along the ground. There is a patch of it on the banks of the millpond, which blooms pink in summer.” The smith seemed determined to avoid Isabella’s gaze, which was most unlike him.

What was so important about wild thyme?

And what did it have to do with the blue marks on Murdoch’s flesh?

“I would think them much the same, perhaps one stronger than the other,” she said with care. “It is often that way with the wild plant and the variant grown in the kitchen garden.”

The smith shook his head with vigor. “I suggest with respect that you learn more of it, my lady, and do so soon.” He gave her one last look before he raised his voice. “I do hope that the matter of the renegade in the forest and his true intent is well-investigated,” he said, seemingly for all to hear.

“Bertram!” the smith’s wife hissed from within the shop. “Mind your place!”

“The Laird of Kinfairlie has shown himself to be a fair man, and one who does not insist upon men holding their tongues,” the smith said.

“Indeed, he has,” Isabella agreed. “I thank you for your counsel, Master Smith.”

She would investigate wild thyme’s powers as well, the better to understand the smith’s meaning. What manner of allies did Murdoch have? What did they have to do with wild thyme? Isabella was certain she had been warned, and she would know of what.

First, back to the baker’s abode, then the chapel and its crypt.

To Isabella’s dismay, her quest was not to be pursued as yet.

For Moira came running from the keep, her manner distraught. “My lady Isabella! Praise be to God that I found you. Come quickly! My lady Eleanor has need of your care!”

* * *

Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, felt his burdens were heavy in these times. The sight of his sister Annelise—sweet, gentle Annelise—playing with his son in the hall upon his return sent a pang through his heart.

He did not doubt that the Earl of March would become more determined to see Kinfairlie’s daughters used to secure alliances—and to provide rewards. Alexander had had a reprieve these past years with so many men journeying to France to fight the king’s war, but now they returned, and the earl would be determined to secure their loyalty. The earl had already proposed two matches for Annelise, who was, after all, the eldest of Alexander’s unwed sisters and thus the most eligible to wed. That she was yet young, lovely and sweet of nature only made her more desirable.

But to condemn Annelise to be the wife of a hardened warrior, a man who had gained the spoils of violence and doubtless become convinced of its merit, was not a deed Alexander could willingly do. Would she be beaten? Raped? Treated with disrespect? Isabella would have faced down any who dared to treat her badly, but Annelise had not such steel in her spine.

It would have been one thing if Alexander had known the men in question, or even if he had been given the opportunity to meet the candidates and take their measure, but the earl simply sent names. Alexander had declined the earl twice since the Yule, but knew he could not continue to deny his liege lord’s will forever.

He could take his sisters to the king’s court, but he feared they would be desired by men he had no wish to welcome into his family. The court might well be rough this year, even when the king returned, due to the number of warriors arriving there. His sisters might merely be despoiled and abandoned.

He wished they were older.

He wished they were more plain.

He wished they were already wedded.

But mere wishes would not see the matter solved. Alexander had to find a solution while respecting his pledge that his sisters should wed by their own choices. He wanted to build a dozen curtain walls around his keep, each taller than the last, fill the spaces between with deep moats, and ensure the safety of all beneath his hand forever. He wanted Ross and Malcolm to return unchanged, men but not warriors hardened by battle. He never wanted to argue again with Ross as he had at the Yule, and he feared the silence of Malcolm’s fortunes.

He wanted Eleanor to survive this pregnancy, to be hale and happy by his side once again.

But Alexander feared his desires might not come true.

He knew his party had chased the brigands from Kinfairlie’s forests, but he was certain that Murdoch Seton would return. That man believed his complaint had merit and Alexander did not imagine that he would be easily dissuaded of that view. Indeed, he had some admiration of Murdoch’s persistence.

As inconvenient as it might be.

Alexander did not know why so many relics sold at Ravensmuir had been stolen, but there was no doubt that they had been. He did not know where they had been taken and he did not know who might be responsible. He did not know how the thief could know the location of so many relics without looking in the record of the auction locked within this very room.

But he had a suspicion and he feared it might be true.

He would not condemn his aunt Rosamunde, not without knowing the truth of her involvement. But he feared that his aunt, who had been the most successful of the family in trading relics and a woman with a keen memory who had attended that same auction, had returned to her old trade.

She would not have told Alexander, for she might have guessed he would disapprove.

But to return to the trade, she would have need of an inventory to sell, and the relics that had once been stored at Ravensmuir might be the simplest inventory to obtain. For all Alexander knew, Rosamunde still considered them to be her property even though Tynan had sold them. She might reason that the reclamation of the relics was simply a restoration to their rightful owner.

It was also possible that Ross had gathered many of the relics at the command of their aunt. Why else would he leave the service of the Earl of Buchan so abruptly? Why else would he leave Scotland for the life of a mercenary on the continent? They had argued bitterly at the Yule because Alexander knew Ross had not told him the truth.

Could his own relations be in alliance over this matter? Could they be the ones who threatened his future?

Alexander could not say. He could not reveal his suspicions about Rosamunde, yet he dared not risk protecting her any longer. Murdoch was routed for the moment, though that might not last. Alexander had to seize the opportunity.

His thoughts churned even as he celebrated the day with his men. The horses had been stabled and the men rewarded with ale in the hall. Alexander shared but a quaff with them in the spirit of camaraderie before he climbed the stairs, the sight of Annelise and Roland haunting him.

He took but a moment to see Eleanor and kiss her brow, and was most relieved to find Isabella in attendance. His sister knew more than she told, he was certain of it, just as he was convinced that any admiration she had for Murdoch Seton was the harmless whimsy of a maiden.

Eleanor was pale again and her smile was weaker than Alexander would have liked. He hoped with all his heart that she would not lose this child, but he worried more for her welfare—and the demands she placed upon herself. Moira sat beside the bed, fretting sufficient for three women, and the solar was filled with the scent of the herbs Isabella was grinding in her pestle.

“It seems you were right, and I should remain abed,” Eleanor murmured.

“You are never so kind to yourself as you are to others.”

She gave him a thin smile. “Well, there is so much to be done.”

“And my three sisters to do your bidding.” Alexander brushed the fair hair back from her brow with a tender fingertip and kissed her again. “Sleep, Eleanor. ’Tis all the child wants of you.”

“I know,” she admitted and her lashes fluttered reluctantly to a close. Alexander looked hard at Isabella, wondering what she saw that he did not. To his relief, she nodded and smiled, her confidence reassuring him.

“It is her stomach,” Isabella confided quietly. “I believe this is common early in the pregnancy. When she drank the posset yesterday, she was able to eat and felt stronger.”

“Can you make it for her daily? Or is it a potion that should be used sparingly?”

“There is no concern with her drinking it even several times a day. I shall prepare more of the herb mixture, then any soul could heat milk and add a measure of herbs to it.” Isabella smiled again for him. “Otherwise she seems well enough. I will show Moira the proper measure.”

“And me, if you please,” Alexander said. At Isabella’s nod of agreement, he glanced again at Eleanor. “I will return in but a moment.” Then he retreated to his office to write a missive to Rosamunde.

Alexander had to dispatch a messenger before Murdoch was returned.

* * *

Murdoch felt the cold grow with every step he took toward Kinfairlie’s forest. It was evening before he reached the perimeter of the woods and he was chilled through, despite walking at a brisk pace. He stepped into the forest and the cold settled over him like a shroud, making him shiver anew. He could feel the mark on his flesh growing, and his future becoming more dim by the moment.

He made his way to the camp they had abandoned that morning and was glad to find Gavin already there. The boy was excited to see him and filled his ears with chatter about their adventure during the day. The tale had already been embellished in Murdoch’s absence, and he knew that by the time it was recounted to Stewart and Hamish, it would grow even more wondrous.

Still, it was harmless for the boy to have enjoyed their deed, and his enthusiasm spared Murdoch from needing to make conversation. His very limbs felt leaden from the cold, but he could see that Gavin was not so affected.

It was the Elphine Queen.

Or whatever she did to his heart.

The sky was falling dark and the chill of night made them huddle in their cloaks, but Murdoch dared not light a fire as yet. He would be certain of Stewart and Hamish’s welfare and their return first. The forest was devoid of the sounds of men, which was a relief. Indeed, Murdoch was certain that no human eyes watched him and Gavin.

The Fae, though, were everywhere. He kept his eyes narrowed and his gaze fixed on the ground in front of himself, as if in deep thought. Gavin finally tired of recounting his tale and fell silent, as well.

The splash of water made Murdoch’s head snap up. He held out a hand to keep the boy from speaking and straightened with care. Gavin watched him with such a lack of understanding that Murdoch feared the boy had lost his wits.

That could, though, be the work of the Fae.

The shadows seemed to have filled the forest like a dark mist, making it impossible to see far in any direction. Murdoch could hear that the splashing came from the direction of the river that passed through Kinfairlie’s woods. It could not be fifty feet away.

Who approached them?

Who dared to move so noisily?

On stealthy feet, Murdoch worked his way to a better vantage point. The splashing continued, evidence that whoever was in the river remained there—and was unaware of Murdoch.

Or did not care.

Murdoch approached the bank of the river and halted in the shadows. A woman bent over the water, her back to him. She was old and crooked, and murmured to herself intelligibly as she worked. She looked to be washing a garment in the river, which made little sense.

It was evening, in the heart of the forest, and no one lived near this place. A thin layer of ice glistened as it formed on the surface of the water in the evening’s chill, its frosty edges outlining rocks like white lace and the smooth expanses of it reflecting the stars like a mirror.

Gavin appeared behind Murdoch, his eyes round. “What is it, sir?”

“An old woman washing,” Murdoch answered quietly.

“Where?”

Murdoch glanced at the boy. “Directly before us. Can you not see her?”

The boy granted Murdoch a look of such doubt that Murdoch could make no sense of it. Gavin made a show of scanning the river, then shrugged. “I see no one, sir.”

“But you must have heard the splash of the water.”

The boy shook his head, uncertainty filling his gaze. “Are you well, sir?”

“I am hale enough!” Murdoch turned and raised his voice. “Woman! Rise and show yourself! What is it that you wash in the river?”

She lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder, halting her labor. Gavin made no acknowledgement of this movement. The old woman straightened as much as she apparently could and turned to face him, still crooked with age. Her hood fell back to reveal her face in the same moment that she lifted her washing to show him.

One side of her face was ravaged with age and scarred, while the other was devoid of flesh. That side was a skull with no eye, and her hand on the same side was skeletal. She lifted the garment higher as her grin widened and Murdoch saw that the shirt was stained with blood. The water dripping from it was red, and a crimson current swirled in the river about her knees.

Then he recognized the garment. It was his own tabard she washed.

Murdoch stumbled backward in his shock and dismay, but the woman merely nodded and returned to her labor.

“A bean-nighe,” Murdoch murmured, knowing that he was seeing a Fae whose actions foretold his own death. “Are you certain you cannot see her?” he demanded of Gavin, although he knew the answer well enough.

The boy shook his head. “You should eat a morsel, sir,” he said, speaking with the care one reserved for the mad or the delusional. “I shall light a fire and all will be well.” The boy strode back to their camp with purpose but Murdoch could only watch him go.

He glanced back, but the bean-nighe had vanished.

The Elphine Queen’s laughter rang lightly in the distance. Murdoch spun to look toward the sound of her merriment, but saw only a flurry of snow flakes swirl in the air, dancing toward him.

He glanced skyward and saw that the clouds had cleared, that the night was dark and glittering with stars. The moon was nearly full, which meant that he had just over two weeks to choose.

Or have his choice made for him.

An irrational fear seized Murdoch, a conviction that the Elphine Queen’s magic would claim his sanity before she seized his heart. He strode through the woods to the fire Gavin kindled, furious that he had been fool enough to make any wager with her.

How could he have ever looked into her eyes?

What could he do to free himself?

Heat. He had need of heat in his veins. That was the first matter, whether any watched the forest shadows or not. He would have to take the risk. Then he had to find Duncan’s relic and see it restored, if it was the last deed he did in this life.

Murdoch would not consider that it likely would be.

And he would not mourn what might have been with Isabella, had he been a free man.

He would, however, dream of her.

Chapter Eight

The messenger had been certain that he would be safe. It was yet evening, the sun barely set. He would be through Kinfairlie forest before it was truly dark, well on his way to Newcastle. The brigands had been routed and this would be the safest time to make his passage.

The laird spoke aright, and the laird’s message must be delivered.

All the same, the messenger spurred his horse to great speed on the road that wound through Kinfairlie forest. It was only his memories that haunted him, he reminded himself, and the bandits had not injured him. They had frightened him, no more than that.

He still would be glad to leave the forest behind him.

It was strange how dark it was within the forest, for the trees were bare of leaves and the sky should have been bright overhead. The messenger felt that the woods was filled with peril and ominous shadows. He could see the glimmer where the road erupted into the fields ahead and urged his horse to even greater speed. He thought he was nearly free of the forest’s shadow and dared to be glad.

Then some fool leapt on to the road in front of the horse, waving a burning torch. The horse shied, turning aside to plunge into the forest’s undergrowth. The messenger tried to slow the beast, not wanting it to be injured on the uneven ground. Firelight appeared on all sides of him. He was certain there must be a dozen flaming torches closing around him in a circle. The horse spun and snorted and finally came to a restless halt, stamping its feet in the undergrowth.

And the messenger found the tip of a sword at his throat.

A man, his face dark with soot, smiled at him. He held the sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other. He was dressed all in black, the flash of his smile uncommonly bright. He looked reckless and dangerous, a brigand to be sure. That circle of burning torches, held by the thief’s companions, ensured that the horse would not obey any command to run.

The villains were back, and with unholy speed.

The messenger swallowed, feeling his throat move against the point of the blade.

“I will have your purse,” the renegade said as if they met in social circumstance. “And whatsoever else of value you carry.” He smiled again, too amiable to be trusted. “I will have it now, and you will have your safe passage in exchange.”

When the matter was presented thus, the messenger could find no reason not to comply.

* * *

Isabella was vexed. It seemed that every time she thought she might have a chance to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel, some other soul wanted some deed from her. She could not abandon Eleanor in her illness, to be sure. She had sent a preparation to the Siobhan for their son, and she had been required at the board that night for the evening meal as well.

The entire day slid away without Isabella finding a moment to go to the chapel without her sisters knowing of it. Elizabeth in particular was cursedly curious, as if that sister sensed some change in Isabella—or guessed that there was a secret she was not being told. Worse, Alexander insisted upon the gates to the bailey being secured that night, as safeguard against the renegades he had routed but not captured.

And so it was that Isabella defied the belief of all in that household, by rising at dawn to go to chapel. She was always the last of the sisters to leave the warmth of her pallet. On this day, she awakened with the first glimmer of sunlight, realized all were asleep, and recognized her chance.

She would say that she went to pray for Eleanor and the babe she carried, if she was asked.

She would do that, as well as search the crypt.

It was not a holy day, so morning mass would be later in Kinfairlie chapel. With all good fortune, Isabella would have the small church to herself for a precious few moments. She dressed in haste, snatched up her cloak and eased open the door to the chamber, watching Annelise and Elizabeth with care. Their maid Vera snored so noisily that Isabella could have kissed her.

Then she was gone, fleeing down the stairs of the keep, racing across the nigh-empty hall, and into the crisp chill of a winter morning. The portcullis was closed and the gatekeeper started at the sight of her.

“I would pray for Lady Eleanor,” Isabella said, her words breathless. “Before she awakens and has need of my aid.”

He moved quickly then, unlocking the smaller portal with one of the keys on the ring attached to his belt. “I beg you add my prayers to yours, my lady,” he said with a nod and Isabella smiled agreement.

She ran through the gates, through the village, through the snow that had dusted the road during the night. She pushed open the heavy wooden door of the chapel and blinked at the darkness inside. She took a deep breath of the scent of beeswax and saw that a dozen candles yet burned at the altar. Isabella had time to cross herself and genuflect, to hear the heavy portal close behind her, before she was seized in an iron grip.

A gloved hand covered her mouth when she would have cried out in alarm. Her arms were trapped against her body and she was lifted from the ground, a man holding her captive against his muscled strength.

“Who is Rosamunde?” that man whispered into her ear, and Isabella almost fainted in relief.

Murdoch!

* * *

Murdoch did not loosen his grip upon Isabella. Her heart pounded, each pulse radiating heat into his own chilled body. She was so vibrant that holding her in his embrace seemed to call him back from some dark and dreadful place.

He knew that place, its name and its empress. He wished to never return there.

Although his sole choice might be death.

Desperation had driven him back into Kinfairlie village, in hope of meeting Isabella. The message had been from the laird to one Rosamunde, requesting her return most urgently. He had resolved that Isabella would know this Rosamunde, and he knew that Isabella intended to search the chapel’s crypt for the relics.

He and Stewart had ridden around the far side of Kinfairlie village during the dark of the night, letting the sound of the sea disguise the horses’ hoof beats. He had left Zephyr hidden with Stewart far beyond the cemetery. He had crept through the graveyard and into the village while its occupants slept. There was no guard posted on the side of the village away from the road, and the wall was laughably low.

Again, Murdoch had been struck by the confidence of those within this holding in their own safety. Of course, he supposed that during any assault, they simply retreated to the bailey and the tower, which did have a considerable wall and moat around it.

There was a strange rustling as he moved through the village, but Murdoch strove to ignore it. He had a sense of movement in the shadows, of some shadows being darker than they had a right to be, but he simply feared anew that he was losing his wits.

The chapel had been easy to find; he remembered it from the day before. The portal had been unlocked, as such places of sanctuary tended to be. But instead of sanctuary, Murdoch had found a hell within the chapel. The shadows had followed him from the cemetery, surging through the portal behind him, filling the chapel and surrounding him.

Watching him.

They were ghosts. Their stares unblinking and their expressions accusatory—though whether they condemned him for his deeds or for the simple fact that he yet lived, Murdoch could not have said. Either way, they obscured his passage to the crypt, forming a frigid barrier of mist and shadow. He had been unable to pass through their ranks. He also could not leave, for they slipped behind him and barred the portal.

It was the dead who filled his mind with images of disintegration, the dead who pressed against him on all sides. They filled his mind with sights of rotten corpses and maggots, flesh disintegrating in the forest as beings of all kinds returned to earth and dust. They ensured he understood how readily he might join them.

Had they been dispatched by the Elphine Queen to illuminate his choices?

They flowed restlessly around Murdoch, like the brush of a thousand butterfly wings, their presence making him taste his own mortality. He stood, wreathed in shadows and powerless to escape. He became aware of the slow death claiming his own body.

The coldness within him could have struck him to ice, fed by the chill of the stone walls and the presence of the dead. Murdoch feared he would join their ranks by the dawn, and dreaded whatever fate he had unwittingly brought upon Stewart. He tugged back his sleeve and watched the blue whorls grow over his flesh, steadily claiming him body and soul.

Would he simply die in this sacred space? Murdoch did not know but as the cold penetrated his very marrow, he had to struggle to care.

Until Isabella burst into the chapel.

* * *

The pink of the dawn’s light followed Isabella, the radiance of her hair making Murdoch gasp in relief. He seized her as much to silence her as to feel her vitality against him. He closed his eyes and held her tightly, savoring the way her touch drove the cold from his body. When he looked, the dead were retreating.

The lady twisted in his grasp and caught his face in her hands. “How long have you been here?” she whispered with concern. “You are so cold, Murdoch!” She hesitated, surveying him, then touched her lips quickly to his. When he caught his breath at the welcome heat that rolled through his body, she smiled.

Then she locked her hands around his head and kissed him fully.

Murdoch could not resist her. He caught her close and deepened his kiss, drinking of her sweet passion. He felt a thaw pass through his body, invigorating him with rare power. His mouth was on her throat, his senses flooded with the enticing perfume of Isabella. She might have been a rope cast to a drowning man, so tightly did he embrace her and the salvation she offered.

She said she learned the healing arts, he recalled belatedly. Perhaps that was why her presence aided him. He did not imagine for a moment that she could heal him fully, but he would take the reprieve and be glad of it.

Indeed, he could not get enough of her. He wanted to feel her again, and watch her find her pleasure once more. She kissed him with such ardor that Murdoch dared to believe their desires were as one. He shed his gloves, his fingers twining in her hair and setting it free of her braid. It flowed over her shoulders, surrounding her face like a corona of flame. He whispered her name and claimed her lips again, drinking deeply of the heat she shared with him so willingly. He could lose himself in this woman’s allure and never regret his choice.

Isabella framed his face in her hands and broke their kiss, studying him closely. “Why are you here?” she whispered. “I told you I would look for the relics. There was no need for you to risk your own safety.” She winced and took a step away. “Or do you not trust me?”

Something changed in her tone, Murdoch saw as much. He reminded himself that he had nothing to promise her, even as he wished to court her truly. “I trust you. If ever there was a lady who would keep her pledge, it is you.”

Isabella turned away, failing to hide her pleasure in his words. Murdoch caught her chin in his hand, tempted to kiss her yet again. He could have been standing in the sunlight on a midsummer day, given the radiant warmth that filled his body.

“All the same, you should not have taken such a risk,” she scolded softly.

“I came because your brother sent a message last night to one Rosamunde, begging her to return with speed.”

“How do you know this?”

Murdoch smiled.

“Not another messenger?”

“The same one and equally as unharmed as the last time. I took but three of his coins.” With a flourish, Murdoch dropped them one at a time into the alms box beside the portal to the church.

She gave him a look that was doubtless intended to be stern, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “You undoubtedly frightened him.”

Murdoch shrugged. “For only a moment. I even returned the message to him, resealed as if he had never encountered me.”

“Do not tell me that you change your ways for me?”

Murdoch smiled. “You cannot blame me for wishing to ensure I remain in your favor.” Isabella sobered at that and he wondered what he had said. “Who is Rosamunde?”

Isabella bit her lip and stepped away from him, her brows drawing together in a frown. Again, her tone had changed and she spoke to him as if he were a stranger. Where was the passionate maiden who had warmed him with her kiss? “Rosamunde is my aunt.” She frowned. “We call her aunt, although there is no blood between us. She was adopted by my grandfather’s brother when she was an infant, and raised as one of us. She was the one who used to trade in religious relics, before my uncle Tynan saw fit to be rid of them all. I think perhaps he meant to save Rosamunde from her trade.”

There was a new distance between them although Murdoch was not certain why. It bothered him, although he knew he should be glad that she drew away from him of her own accord. It might make it less painful for her to expect nothing from him, and she would be less disappointed when he disappeared. “Where is she?”

“Sicily, last I heard. Rosamunde was supposed to come for the Yule with Padraig, but they never arrived.”

“Do you know why?”

Isabella frowned. “My aunt is not conventional, but her word is her bond. She did not vow to be here at the Yule, so she might have changed her plans. In truth, no one made much of it at the time.”

“Why would your brother wish for her presence now?” The answer was obvious to Murdoch, but he wanted Isabella to see the connection. It made sense to Murdoch that the laird might suspect this aunt—and he might have greater cause to request her presence than mere suspicion.

Isabella held Murdoch’s gaze. “Perhaps he simply seeks her counsel.”

“Perhaps he believes she knows more of this matter than he does.”

Isabella clearly did not care for that suggestion, though Murdoch knew it was the most obvious one. “Let us not suspect another member of my family before we clear the first.” She pivoted and marched toward the altar. The ghosts of the dead eased away from her path, still watching, still accusatory, but also helpless against the vitality of her presence.

Murdoch swallowed then followed. He had been cornered by the dead and now would descend willingly into a crypt.

Because Isabella asked him to do so.

* * *

There was a panel in the wooden floor behind the altar, one that Isabella struggled to open herself. Murdoch stepped past her and hauled the panel upward, realizing that it was hinged like a door in the floor. He let it lean against the back wall, swallowing at the stairs that disappeared into the darkness below.

The ghosts rushed forward. He could not stifle the sense that he descended into a tomb, one from which he might not ever depart.

Isabella seized a candle from the table behind the altar, then rummaged for the flint that must be there. Perhaps it was not, for she could not find it. Murdoch reached into his purse and produced his own flint, striking it and lighting the wick of the beeswax candle. When the flame kindled and cast a golden light into the dark chapel, he wondered that he had not thought of lighting a candle sooner. The warm sweet scent of the beeswax soothed his fears and the light either dispatched the ghosts or made them harder to see.

While he was reassured by the candle’s light, Isabella was not.

“It has grown so fast as this?” she demanded. Before he could reply, she had put down the candle. She seized his left wrist with both of her hands and pushed up his sleeve, her gaze roving over the blue mark on his skin.

It had doubled in size during the night, Murdoch knew. It covered his arm from the root of his fingers to his elbow. Isabella turned his hand over and he saw that there were tendrils snaking across his palm as well as the underside of his forearm.

She looked up at him. “Do you pattern yourself apurpose?”

“No.” Murdoch shook his head and tugged his hand free of hers. He pulled down his sleeve and donned his gloves again, then gestured to the stairs. “The crypt,” he reminded her.

Isabella did not move. “It spreads. You had a small whorl on the back of your wrist, but now it is darker and broader. What is it?”

Murdoch swallowed. “A curse. A curse that will claim me body and soul before the moon is new again.”

“But...”

He saw the curiosity in her eyes, but gestured impatiently to the stairs. “There is little time, Isabella, and no cure.”

She held his gaze. “This is why you spoke so sternly to me yesterday,” she whispered and he should have been dismayed that she saw his truth so readily. “You would not promise what you cannot do.”

Murdoch could not deny it. Isabella surveyed him, then nodded once, evidently having made a decision.

Murdoch yearned to know what it was, but she descended four stairs before reaching back for the candle. Only then did Murdoch realize he should have preceded her. Their fingers brushed in the transaction, making his body heat anew.

Then Isabella continued down the stairs. As she disappeared into the crypt, the light from the candle went with her. As the shadows grew in the chapel once more, the dead eased closer. Murdoch leapt after her, convinced that he felt ghosts snatch at his cloak and his hair. They meant to claim him. No, they meant to keep him here, in this chapel, in the ranks of the dead.

Such was his terror that he reached back and hauled the door closed behind them, sealing himself into the crypt with Isabella. Only once it was done did he marvel at his own choice.

He could smell earth and damp stone. Murdoch swallowed and turned, spying Isabella in a pool of light at the far end of the cellar. He noted that the crypt was slightly smaller than the church above but of the same shape. The ceiling was so low that he would have to duck beneath the beams to follow Isabella to the other end. The floor was uneven, simply pounded dirt, and Murdoch refused to think of what might have been buried in this place.

It was so very cold.

He made to follow Isabella, and that was when he saw the skeletons. In the long walls of the crypt, there were niches carved out of the earth. In each was a skeleton, as if he looked into the sides of coffins long interred. Murdoch could see that the spaces were buttressed with stones above the head and below the feet of each skeleton. The face of the one on his right was turned to him, the vacant eyes of the skull and the bared teeth making him feel as if the dead man laughed at him.

Murdoch shivered.

“Those who die in the defense of Kinfairlie are entombed here in honor to their service,” Isabella said, noting his surprise. She cast him a smile. “We come to venerate them on certain holy days. Otherwise, they sleep untroubled.” Murdoch could not match her light mood, although he endeavored to do so. “It has been long since Kinfairlie was attacked and I understand their ghosts are long dispatched.”

She made a jest but she was right. Murdoch forced himself to take a deep breath and reclaim his senses. The dead in this cellar, to his relief, were merely bones.

Silent.

He had found sanctuary from all that haunted him, and in the last place he might have sought it.

* * *

What was the mark on Murdoch’s arm? Isabella had never seen the like of it. It covered his skin, almost like a rash, but it looked to be drawn. It was blue and consisting of a design of circles and swirls. She was reminded of the way that ferns unfurled in the spring, of the way water spun around the rocks in the river, of the way frost could draw a white path across the surface of a still water.

She had only caught a glimpse of it the day before, but she knew that it had been much smaller. He said he was cursed and she guessed that the mark on the skin was a representation of progress made.

Was he a condemned man as the smith implied?

Isabella had known at first glimpse of Murdoch this morning that something was amiss. She had thought him a man turned to ice, for he had been so pale and cold. He had appeared to be lost, as well, like one awakened abruptly from a bad dream. This was the mark of the malady, as sure a sign as the blue marks on his flesh.

After their kiss, though, Murdoch seemed to have recovered his usual manner. He was cavalier and daring, restored to the knight she had first encountered. Now, he strode across the floor to her side and Isabella glanced up at him. She was relieved to see the familiar glint of recklessness and humor in his eyes.

’Twas then she wondered whether she might be able to heal him. He thought the malady incurable, and he would not make promises to her for fear of being unable to keep them.

What if Isabella could turn the tide? The notion made her heart skip. She was attempting to fit the key into the lock upon the trunk that held the treasures of the chapel, and having no success with the deed.

“It will not turn,” she complained, peering at the lock.

“Another stolen key?” Murdoch teased, taking the brass key from her hand. “A man must be careful of his treasures in your company.”

“Borrowed,” she corrected and they shared a smile that heated her to her toes. “I always return them.”

“After you have satisfied your curiosity.” There was no censure in his tone, merely affection. “The keys may be safe enough but the secrets have no chance.”

Isabella liked that he cast her an irreverent grin and liked even better that he crouched down beside her so that his shoulder bumped against her own. He lifted the key from her fingers and she thought he ensured that his hand lingered against her own.

Murdoch inserted the key again, jiggled it and the tumblers rolled.

“Sorcerer!” she charged, then realized she shouldn’t have done so. He seemed alarmed by her teasing accusation, which surprised her. What would a knight care about sorcery and superstition? That was the provenance of old women—like Moira.

“I thought that was the trade of the Lammergeier,” he said with care.

“So it is rumored,” Isabella acknowledged, tipping back the lid of the trunk. “Though I have yet to see any such powers at work.”

“Truly?” He was watching her with that intensity once again.

Isabella thought for a moment. “My sister, Elizabeth, claims to be able to see a spriggan, a troublesome fairy called Darg.” She rolled her eyes. “Darg apparently is concerned primarily with stealing ale and making dire pronouncements about our marital prospects.”

Murdoch seemed to be fighting a smile. “Indeed? What does Darg say about you?”

Isabella glanced at him and saw that he was fixed upon her answer. Her heart leapt at this sign of his interest. “Evidently my future is bound to a man lost in darkness. It seems most fanciful to me.”

To Isabella’s surprise, Murdoch paled.

Before she could ask, he reached for the lid of the trunk. “What is in the trunk that should not be there?” he demanded, his tone both terse and officious.

Isabella was startled by yet another change in his manner. Was he like Elizabeth and Moira to put faith in such tales? Isabella would not have believed it.

Unless Darg’s pronouncement mirrored Murdoch’s truth.

Aware of the passing time, Isabella worked through the trunk’s contents. “These are the adornments of our fallen comrades,” she said, removing the chalices and daggers and swords. Beneath them were a pair of helms and an assortment of tabards, the fabric in poor condition. “They are dressed for their great holy days,” she told Murdoch. “And at the bottom should be the silver for the Mass, the chalice for the wine and the platter for the bread.” She frowned as she felt the dark corners at the bottom of the trunk.

“What is it?” Murdoch demanded.

“The chalice is not here,” Isabella said, her concern rising as she checked the trunk again. “Kinfairlie possesses a chalice and plate of sterling silver, used for the mass only on high holy days.”

“It has not been seen for a while, then.”

“Not since Christmas morning,” Isabella sat back on her heels and stared at Murdoch. “It should be here, but it is gone.”

His blue gaze locked with hers. “Because the thief disguises his crime by stealing also from his own treasury?”

Isabella shook her head, unwilling to believe it. “Or because Kinfairlie too falls victim to the thief.”

“Ross,” Murdoch whispered but Isabella shook her head. It was impossible that Ross would do such a deed. She would have defended him hotly but had no chance.

For the door to the chapel creaked overhead.

They were no longer alone.

* * *

Murdoch froze at the sound of the portal opening, almost directly over their heads.

He had a glimpse of Isabella’s face as she gazed upwards, then she snuffed the candle and plunged them into darkness. The smell of the extinguished wick seemed too powerful to him, a sure sign that their presence would be revealed.

Indeed, he could see a tiny measure of morning’s light through the cracks between the boards that formed the floor of the chapel and the ceiling of the crypt. There was no way out of the space, save up the stairs to the door behind the altar—and from there, out the main portal of the chapel.

A shadow passed overhead, the boards creaking beneath a person’s weight.

It seemed to Murdoch that the person paused, as if aware that all was not right.

Perhaps smelling that snuffed candle.

A cold sweat broke on his brow. He was not only hunted and within the laird’s territory, but cornered. Would this be the end of it? Murdoch could not accept as much, though he did not have a plan to escape.

“Count to one hundred,” Isabella whispered against his ear, her voice so low that he could barely discern her words. She pressed a kiss against his neck, a hot kiss that sent a simmering heat through his body.

His knees weakened with the realization that once again, his Isabella came to his aid.

Then she was gone, leaving him in the darkness. He heard her footsteps as she crossed the crypt, then on the stairs. He saw her silhouette as she pushed open the door in the floor, remaining motionless himself all the while. She didn’t open it all the way, and he suspected that she meant to hide her location. Murdoch was not certain how she managed to squeeze through so narrow a gap, but she did. No sooner had her feet disappeared and the door been silently shut, then he heard her voice.

“Father Malachy!” she exclaimed, as if delighted to see the priest.

“My lady Isabella,” a man replied, his surprise undisguised. The floor boards creaked as he moved toward the altar and Isabella. “I did not see you there.”

“I was on my knees, Father, the better to pray.”

Murdoch bit back a smile at his lady’s lie.

The priest, he soon realized, knew Isabella well enough to be skeptical. “How uncommon to find you at your devotions so early,” he said. “I know you are one happier to remain warm abed.”

“Indeed, Father, but I could not do so on this day.”

Concern touched the priest’s voice. “Is there a matter troubling you, my lady?”

“I fear for the baker’s son. His cough does not improve as it should, and I do not possess Eleanor’s skill with healing. Siobhan is worried, too.” Isabella’s voice rose, no doubt deliberately. “And Eleanor herself is less than well. I could not compel her to visit the boy, nor could I have him brought him to her, lest she take his cough. Already the alewife’s daughter has begun to cough, and I fear my skill will not suffice.”

“It is a heavy burden you have assumed in this moment of Lady Eleanor’s illness,” the priest said, his manner calming. “I know that you will do your best, my lady, and that truly is all that any can expect.”

“But I fear it will not be enough!” Isabella’s voice rose in appeal. “Would you come and bless him, Father?”

“Of course! I should have done so sooner, but thought his condition improved.”

“I fear it is a false improvement, Father,” Isabella said darkly, “and that he will become more ill soon.”

“Then I shall bring God’s blessing to the boy.”

“We must go immediately, Father Malachy.”

“But...”

“Surely, you would not have the boy grow worse?”

Isabella’s footsteps sounded overhead and Murdoch guessed that she fairly ran to the chapel’s doors. The floor creaked overhead as the priest followed her and Murdoch watched their shadows pass overhead. Isabella continued to chatter in a way most uncharacteristic of her and Murdoch could only assume that she meant to keep the priest distracted from noting anything out of the usual.

When the silence claimed the church again, Murdoch began to count. The shadows seemed alive to him then, the darkness of the crypt so oppressive as to smother him. The skulls seemed to glow in their niches, laughing at him perhaps, and that anxiety claimed him anew.

He counted to twenty, then moved with purpose toward the stairs, still counting. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness but his breath came quickly.

Something moved behind him.

Murdoch spun, but the bones had not moved. There were no ghosts. He should have been safely alone.

Instead, he saw the pounded dirt floor shimmer before his eyes, seeming to be both solid and seething at the same time. He’d reached thirty, but counted more quickly beneath his breath as he stared at the floor. The dirt seemed to boil and to erupt, in a way that was more reminiscent of water than earth.

He rubbed his eyes and passed forty.

When he looked again, a crevasse had opened in the floor, a crevasse filled with writhing dark shapes. He could not help but look within the deeper darkness there, only to realize that it was a bed of black snakes, twisting over each other.

Fifty.

One large snake climbed the backs of the others and leapt out of the pit, slithering directly for him. Murdoch took a step back, stumbling on the bottom stair. He backed up the stairs, bumping his head against the wooden panel.

Sixty.

The snake continued toward him, targeting him with such accuracy that Murdoch felt his terror rise. He pulled his feet up beneath himself and fingered the hilt of his knife. If it came up the steps—and he could not imagine it could—he would kill it.

Seventy.

The snake seemed larger with proximity, larger and thicker and more powerful. It reached the steps and reared up, staring directly at Murdoch. It opened its mouth and hissed. He pulled the knife but there was another shimmer.

And the Elphine Queen stood before him, amusement in her treacherous eyes.

Eighty.

“You cannot kill me, Murdoch,” she said. “I thought you knew.” She leaned over him, and he averted his gaze, knowing that one glimpse into her eyes would see him lost again. Her hand landed on his boot, her fingers sliding toward his knee. She gripped his thigh, the one that had been so injured and Murdoch again felt a prick of pain. “Have you chosen, my love?”

“I thought you could not tread upon sacred ground.”

She laughed. “All ground is sacred, my love, at least to me. The earth will never spurn me.” She gestured and he saw that the pit of snakes was gone, gone as surely as if it had never existed.

Ninety.

Even she seemed insubstantial, a vision wrought of mist and shadows. She smiled at him and kissed her fingertips, blowing him an embrace. “So, you have seen both futures. One in my realm and one with those who haunt this place. Which will you have?”

“Neither.”

“I do not offer that choice,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing.

He kept his gaze averted, his breathing as rapid as if he had been running.

“Fear not, Murdoch, when the moon is new, we will be together,” she murmured finally. “One way or the other.”

She faded from view, leaving Murdoch gasping on the steps. He was cold again, colder than he had ever been, cold almost to the point of paralysis. He lunged upward, opening the door in the floor with his shoulder and lurching into the chapel. He moved like a drunkard, his body unresponsive and heavy, and he feared that he was half-dead already.

He caught his breath at the portal, leaning back against it as he collected what was left of his wits. He peered through the crack between the double doors at Kinfairlie village, which was yet shadowed and quiet. He heard women at the well, which was out of his view and to his left. It mattered little. There was no time to waste. The longer he waited, the more witnesses there might be.

Murdoch slipped out the door and around the church.

He heard a woman shout at the sight of him and silently cursed every soul who went early for water. The hue and cry began immediately and he knew he could not make the village boundary unseen. He would not endanger Stewart, unless he had no choice.

There was a door open on his right, a kind of shed filled with shadows. Murdoch dove into the space, flinging himself to the darkest corner and backing into the wall. He could smell hay and manure and horseflesh. The women raced past in the alley beyond and he exhaled in relief when their voices faded.

He had just closed his eyes for a moment, when a lantern was swung before his face. The smith’s features appeared, lit from below like some unholy specter, and the man nodded with satisfaction. “The renegade from the woods, I assume,” he said in a low voice. His gaze dropped to Murdoch’s wrist as if he knew what he would see there. “Fear not. I will not reveal you.”

And he turned to his forge, breaking the kindling over his knee as he commenced to light the fire for the day. Murdoch exhaled a shaking breath and willed his body to calm.

“Why not?” he asked quietly, not truly believing the pledge.

The smith chuckled. “I cannot condemn a man who puts a horse’s welfare above his own safety.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes dark. “And I know enough of the Fae to recognize one they intend to claim. Has she seduced you yet?”

Chapter Nine

It was most curious.

Father Malachy returned to the chapel to prepare for morning mass, struggling to make sense of the lady Isabella’s behavior. He had never known her to be devout, and generally she came as late to services as could be contrived without earning anyone’s ire. She had been distressed, to be certain, although he could not imagine why she had been praying behind the altar table.

It was all most curious. Never mind that the son of the baker and his wife, Siobhan, was so obviously improved that the boy would scarce remain still to be blessed. His parents clearly thought it unnecessary that Father Malachy had made the journey to their abode.

It could be that the lady Isabella learned responsibility. It could be that she took her newfound skills as an apprentice healer most seriously and that this labor gave purpose to her days. Father Malachy could give credit to that notion and be glad of it, but still, something was amiss.

He might have put the matter out of his mind, had he not noticed that the new candle he had set out the night before had been lit. The wick was singed black and there was a hollow at the top where the wax had melted. Indeed, the wax was yet warm.

Father Malachy’s gaze fell to the door in the floor, the one that led to the crypt. On impulse, he lit the candle, opened the door and descended to the crypt. He crossed to the trunk of the chapel’s treasury and knew he smelled an extinguished wick.

The skeletons shared no testimony of whatever they had witnessed.

Father Malachy lifted the key from his belt, bent and unlocked the trunk. All was in disarray within it, most certainly not as he had left it. Fear struck him and he searched immediately for the most precious items in the treasury.

The silver chalice and platter used to serve communion on high holy days were gone.

Father Malachy frowned at the rumpled garments in the trunk and the small treasures left in disarray. There were only two keys to this trunk and one was in his hand. The other was in the possession of the Laird of Kinfairlie, and Father Malachy knew it was not left unguarded.

He fought against the obvious conclusion. He could not place such a theft at Lady Isabella’s door, for her heart was true. She must have been deceived by another. She must be aiding another, out of a false sense of justice.

Father Malachy had an idea who that villain might be, even before the women who had been gossiping at the well came to tell him of what they had seen.

* * *

Murdoch was astonished by the smith’s words. He could not believe that there was any other man who knew what he had endured—at least not one who yet lived among mortals. He eased out of the shadows, wanting to learn what the smith knew but not yet convinced to himself.

In any way.

“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

The smith spoke without moving his lips much, his attention apparently fixed upon the task of lighting the fire in his forge. “The Elphine Queen has a fondness for mortals. All the Fae do. They like to play with their prey before claiming them completely. I ask merely how much of you she has in her possession.”

“How do you know any of this?”

The smith smiled. “There is only one way a man could know such a tale to be truth, and it is not by hearing it at his gran’s knee.” He nodded at Murdoch’s ungloved hand. “I see her marks upon you and I know what they are.” He pushed up his own sleeves then, purportedly to keep them clear of the fire, but Murdoch saw the tracery of blue on his skin.

It had faded to a delicate network of lines, but the pattern was all too familiar.

“You see why I keep my sleeves long, even when I work,” the smith said, tugging them back down again. “It fades over time, but too slowly for my taste.”

“But she did not claim you.”

The smith shook his head. “I escaped her, but I cannot tell you how.”

“Why not?”

The smith almost smiled. “Because the feat that can release you must be done unwittingly, or it does not count. I can only tell you that you make progress.”

That was far from all that Murdoch wished to know. “Then tell me of your own ordeal? How long has it been?”

“Ten years.” The smith sighed. “My wife could not settle after my escape, so certain was she that the Elphine Queen would hunt me down and avenge herself.” He nodded toward a closed door, which Murdoch assumed led to his abode. “We moved annually, until we came to Kinfairlie, and here we have found some peace.” He flicked a glance at Murdoch. “If she has lain with you, you are already lost.”

“She has not. I asked to be allowed to return home and she released me.”

“No. She gave you a reprieve. If she has not had you yet, she still means to do so.”

“I wish she would change her thinking.” Even as he uttered the words, Murdoch realized how foolish they sounded.

The smith gave him a look. “The Fae do not change their thinking. She does not release any mortal man from her court willingly.”

“So it is a trick. My sole chance is to unwittingly ensure my own release.”

The smith nodded.

Murdoch stared at the ground, irked.

The smith, meanwhile, left the forge, crossing the smithy with quick steps. He removed a wooden box from beneath the table where his tools were organized, looked left and right, then opened it swiftly. He hid the box again, and brought a swaddled item to Murdoch.

He unfurled the bundle of cloth, which held a small knife with a silver hilt. The hilt was worked with elaborate designs, swirls that were evocative of the marks on Murdoch’s flesh, and the blade gleamed. “Toledo steel,” the smith said, running an appreciative fingertip along the knife’s edge.

“The very best,” Murdoch said. “Stronger and sharper than any other.”

The smith nodded. “The steel is folded so many times and forged at such a high temperature, there are those who think it sorcery to make steel so fine.” He met Murdoch’s gaze as he offered him the blade. “Plunge it into the threshold of any establishment you enter, even if you do not think your host or hostess to be Fae. If they are, the steel will ensure that you can leave their abode alive.”

Murdoch was honored by the gift. “I thank you.”

“You cannot know what allies the Elphine Queen has. There are many stirrings in the land at night. It seems the veil is overly thin this year. Or maybe, she simply returns to this region and shows her strength. I cannot say.” The smith turned away, his expression revealing that he believed he had said too much.

Murdoch did not want to endanger this man who helped him, even though he wanted to know more. “Why do you help me if you think I am doomed?”

“You may yet have a chance.” The smith smiled. “And I have a great fondness for the Lady Isabella, of all the family at Kinfairlie. Her spirit is as bright as a flame kindled in the forge, and she is more stalwart and true than many a knight.” He met Murdoch’s gaze steadily. “I will not be the only one to hunt you if you evade the Elphine Queen but do not stand by the Lady Isabella.” His smile turned cool. “I might be the most vindictive.”

Murdoch nodded understanding. “I have nothing to promise her.”

“Yet,” the smith said, in conscious echo of Murdoch’s own words. He placed the knife in Murdoch’s hands. “I give you but part of what you need to change that.”

“Thank you,” Murdoch said, his appreciation heartfelt. “Will you tell me any detail of how you evaded the Elphine Queen?”

The smith shook his head. His eyes narrowed as he listened to the village. “You must flee now, before all are awake and those women find Father Malachy. At the back of my smithy is a loose board, in the corner where you halted. Move it, run directly to the boundary wall, and see yourself safe. I shall re-secure the board. No one will see you.”

“You know my horse is hidden there,” Murdoch guessed.

The smith smiled. “I have eyes in my head for what should not be seen, Murdoch Seton. I saw the dust of the Fae follow you when first you rode into Kinfairlie, and I saw it adorn the messenger’s horse. I knew then that there was more to you than most would discern.” He sobered then, and inclined his head. “Good luck to you.”

Murdoch offered his hand, sensing the smith’s surprise that he did as much. Few nobles and knights would shake the hand of a tradesman, but Murdoch guessed that he might survive only because of this man. The smith smiled with genuine pleasure, then gripped Murdoch’s hand.

“And good luck to you, Master Smith,” Murdoch said. A wild hope had seized him, an optimism that he could defeat the Elphine Queen’s scheme and court Isabella.

He fled then, following the recommended course, knowing that the smith listened while appearing to do otherwise. The board was as promised, the distance to the village perimeter short and deserted. Murdoch fled for the low point in the walls where he had entered the village.

To his relief, Stewart was waiting still—his impatience obvious—with the horses. Murdoch swung into the saddle and they were away. The horses galloped with vigor and the village was left behind. They rode in a wide curve to the south, as if fleeing to Newcastle, before turning and racing toward their refuge in the woods.

Stewart was silent at first, but Murdoch knew that happy state could not last.

* * *

Isabella went through Eleanor’s volumes without finding a single useful reference to wild thyme. Oh, it was true that the herb was listed, as the wild variant of the thyme she knew from the kitchen garden. This familiar information cast no light upon the smith’s comment.

There was nothing for it—she would have to ask Eleanor. Eleanor had been sitting by the fire, playing with Roland when Isabella had returned this morn. Annelise and Elizabeth had been there, as well as Moira, and Isabella feared the entire court of Kinfairlie would know of her curiosity before she could halt the tale.

But she had to know.

She rose to return to the hall, but to her relief, she heard footsteps upon the stairs. Eleanor was ascending to the third floor, Moira at her elbow. Eleanor’s gaze fell to the volume in Isabella’s hand and she smiled.

“Still you would study?” she asked, her pride obvious. “I hear the baker’s son is well recovered, with many thanks to your aid. And my stomach is much improved, thanks to your posset.” Eleanor gave Isabella an embrace and smiled at her fondly. “Soon I shall have no task to call my own, Moira.”

“You have enough to do, my lady, with the laird’s next son on his way,” the maid insisted. She bustled past the pair of them to make the bed ready for her mistress. “And should they all tire you so much from this point forward, some aid would be welcome.”

Eleanor’s smile widened. “You speak as if I shall have a dozen sons, Moira.”

“I do not doubt it possible, my lady, given the affection between yourself and your lord spouse.”

“Do not tell me that you disapprove,” Eleanor teased, her gaze dancing. She took Isabella’s arm and leaned on her a little. “I thought you adored a keep full of children.”

“You should conspire to deliver the next in summertime,” Moira scolded.

“Let us see this one arrive first,” Eleanor said, a shadow of exhaustion touching her gaze.

“You are better, though?” Isabella asked.

“I am tired.” Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Moira hastened to remove her lady’s shoes.

“But this is typical of the beginning of many pregnancies, from what I have read in your own volume. Does it become worse?”

Moira hissed in disapproval, but Eleanor shook her head. “In my experience, it is the opposite. The woman who is ill and tired beyond belief is oft quite hale after the first third of the pregnancy.” She eased back against the pillows and met Isabella’s gaze. “I was more concerned when Roland did not make me ill, in all honesty.”

“We shall not speak of such matters in this chamber,” Moira chided.

Eleanor patted the side of the bed, ignoring her maid and smiling at Isabella. “Come ask me your questions. I see that you have another crop of them.”

“I was curious about wild thyme.”

Moira caught her breath and Isabella saw the maid’s eyes flash before she busied herself with the coverlet.

Eleanor’s expression remained mild. “Why?”

“Cook mentioned that it was stronger than the thyme in the garden, that we did not use it as a result.” Isabella did not mention that Cook had confessed as much only because Isabella had asked outright about the differences. “I wondered if it had other uses. Every plant, after all, seems to have its purpose.”

“Ask your sister, Elizabeth,” Moira muttered. “It is clear enough that she has sampled of it.”

Isabella was curious about that comment, but Eleanor again ignored her maid.

“It is as you say,” Eleanor agreed. “Wild thyme is stronger, so strong that many do not care for its taste in the sauce. It is the one most often consumed for bravery, perhaps because only a stalwart soul can swallow a brew made from it. It is said that Roman warriors added it to their baths before battle, and that all Romans used it when they were massaged. It does stimulate the skin.”

“Enough for blue marks to appear?” Isabella asked.

“Blue marks?” Eleanor clearly had no idea what she meant. “What kind of marks?”

Isabella drew whorls on her own forearm, echoing the pattern she had seen on Murdoch’s skin. “Curls and curves, like a vine growing over the flesh.”

When she glanced up, she saw that Moira was pale and her eyes wide. Isabella realized that there was one who possessed the answer she sought, but it was not Eleanor.

Indeed, Eleanor was untroubled by this detail. “Who has such a mark?”

“I cannot say.”

Eleanor shrugged. “It cannot be of much concern. I would suggest to you that it had more to do with woad than with wild thyme.”

“Woad makes a blue dye,” Isabella recalled.

“Indeed.” Eleanor’s eyelids were drooping and she stifled a yarn. “And it is said that once the warriors who lived in the highlands painted their skin with woad. They fought nude and believed the hue made them more fearsome.”

“For they resembled the Fae,” Moira said darkly.

“I do not understand,” Isabella said.

“The Fae of old had tattoos all over their body, marks just as you said. They were of deepest blue and purple and black, a network across every bit of their flesh.” Moira dropped her voice. “Some say it is the mark of the fallen angels. Others that it is the sign of the dead. Either way, only the Fae sport such marks upon their skin, they possess them from birth and never can they be removed.” She peered at Isabella. “Who have you met, Lady Isabella, and what has this demon pledged to you?”

Eleanor waved a hand, dismissive. “You will hear much superstition about the useful plants, Isabella, and you may believe it if you choose.”

“It is true!” Moira protested.

Eleanor smiled, her expression indulgent. “As a healer, you must keep your attention upon the medicinal uses that are well documented and can be applied to give relief to those who are ill.” She smiled, sleepy. “Do not attribute too much to wild thyme. It has a stronger taste than the thyme we grow, but it is harmless enough.”

With that, she yawned mightily and began to doze.

Isabella, her thoughts spinning by these conflicting tidings, rose slowly so as to not disturb Eleanor. She was not certain that Moira’s knowledge was useful, for it carried so much that seemed rumor, but still she wished to question the maid.

To her relief, Moira was not prepared to abandon their discussion so readily. The older woman touched a fingertip to Isabella’s arm at the threshold of the door. “A brew of wild thyme gives one the power to see the Fae,” the older woman whispered, her gaze dancing to Eleanor with some guilt. “Is that the knowledge you seek? It is a tale I heard from my mother.” She cast a glance back at her sleeping mistress. “There are those who might call it superstition, but I call it wisdom.”

“Did you ever drink of it yourself?”

Moira crossed herself at the very notion. “I would not! Take care, my lady, for it seems you are tempted to venture where you should not.”

Isabella was not certain what to believe. It was her tendency to be skeptical of beings she could not see, but she dared not let her assumptions color all. She certainly could not imagine that Murdoch was Fae.

She could envision him as a warrior. “The Fae truly have blue marks on their skin?”

Moira nodded vigorously. “It is how you know them when they mingle amongst us. They are fond of ale, of horses, of festivities. They think we cannot see them, though, that they can pass unobserved. And they can, unless there is one with the power to see them.”

“Like Elizabeth?”

Moira nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

“I do not think she has ever drunk tea of wild thyme.”

“To be cursed with the power from birth is no blessing!” Moira declared. “And to seek it out by choice is folly indeed.”

“You sound fearful of such ability.”

“And rightly so.” Moira nodded. “Should a soul be able to see them, such knowledge must never be revealed. The Fae will strike blindness upon any who see them, for they are ferociously private.” She swallowed. “They are fierce overall, answerable to no moral code or law. ’Twas why the warriors of old would pretend to be them, to strike terror into the hearts of their opponents.”

Isabella frowned. “But what of a person with such marks upon his skin? He would be a warrior, then?”

“Or he is one they mean to claim. Perhaps he is claimed already. It depends who put the marks upon him, whether they are feigned or genuine.” She shook her head. “If it is the latter, my lady, know that he cannot be saved. The first mark upon his skin was his doom. You must let them take him.”

Rebellion rose hot in Isabella’s chest and she shrugged to hide the vigor of her response. She would let no Fae claim Murdoch. Indeed, the tale sounded to be such nonsense that she could not truly give it credit. He must have donned the marks by choice. She knew he was from the Highlands and she knew he had ridden south to reclaim his family legacy from Alexander. He might well have believed that he would have to do battle to reclaim the stolen relic and prepared accordingly.

“I thank you, Moira,” she said with a smile. “It is best to know where one should use one’s powers.”

“And what one should avoid,” the maid said with heat. “The Fae are here, have you not sensed them? Why do you think my lady is so ill with this child, when she was not with her first? It is the touch of them, for they would take the child as their own. They care not if it is dead or alive, or if my lady lives or dies.”

Isabella was startled by this diatribe, so startled that she knew not what to say. She had not realized that Moira was so superstitious.

The maid gripped her arm, perhaps sensing that Isabella did not believe her. “Do not consume wild thyme, my lady. It will only bring you grief, for they bring only grief.”

“I am glad I spoke to you, Moira.” Isabella squeezed the older woman’s hands. “There is so much to learn, and it seems that not all of the knowledge is in books.”

“It is in the memories of grandmothers,” Moira said with force. Eleanor stirred slightly and the maid glanced back, protective as ever of her mistress.

“I shall make her another posset,” Isabella said. “If you would sit with her.”

There was no question of the maid doing otherwise.

Just as there was no question of Isabella not consuming a tea made of wild thyme. She half-believed the tale was nonsense, but there was only one way to be sure. And thyme in either wild or common form was harmless.

Save that it might bolster her courage. Should she spend more time with Murdoch, that augmentation might not be amiss.

* * *

Stewart could have been the voice of Murdoch’s own conscience.

“It is wicked, I tell you, and it is wrong.” The older man spoke with heat, beginning his tirade as soon as they left Kinfairlie’s walls behind them. “To deceive a man for one’s own purposes is one matter and one that perhaps might be explained by a quest for the greater good. But to abuse the trust of a maiden is base beyond belief.”

Murdoch protested, more because he felt he should than that he disagreed. “You do not know that I have done as much.”

“You took too great a time in the chapel. She was there, was she not?”

Murdoch remained silent, unable to lie to the older man.

“Indeed, she was,” Stewart concluded. “Did you confess to me that you had a tryst? Nay! Of course not, for I should have ensured you did not keep it!”

“I have taken nothing from her, Stewart...”

Stewart was not interested in whatever Murdoch might say. “Gavin tells me that she was in the village and that you seized her when you rode away. He says that the lady was enchanted by you and your daring, and worse, that you did not return for all the day.”

Murdoch would have liked to have argued in favor of his own intentions, but he was not certain what would be possible for him to do. He kept silent with an effort.

Stewart did not such thing. “I have seen the glint in your eyes when you look at her, lad, and I am not so old that I do not know the import of it.” The older man glowered at Murdoch. “’Twas you who said the maiden’s curiosity would be useful, but you go too far in this.”

“It is not that simple...”

“Aye, it is simple enough! Were you more familiar with her on this morn?”

“It is not chivalrous for men to speak of a lady this way.”

Stewart scoffed. “It is not chivalrous to take advantage of a lady’s trust! How dare you lead her to believe you a man of honor, when you mean only to use her for your own ends?”

“I do not!”

“Will you leave a babe in her belly when you abandon her? Will you see her shamed?”

“No!”

“And what do you think will occur then? That you shall recover Duncan’s relic and that the Laird of Kinfairlie will welcome you as a suitor for his sister? A man he has hunted as a criminal and a thief? A man he has pledged to bring to justice? Where have you been these past years that your wits have become so addled as this?”

And there was the crux of it. “I will not speak of it.”

“I will! Your father would never have tolerated such behavior in his household and I regret to see that his own son—his pride and joy, no less—has become such a knave as this. What possibly could have happened to you to change you thus?”

“More than you might imagine, Stewart.” Murdoch spoke grimly. “I would treat her with honor, but I may not have the choice.”

“Choice! So spake every villain in excuse for his own crimes.” Stewart growled to himself for a moment longer, before he found the words. “She is a maiden and one nobly born as well! Knaves and scoundrels are not the men she has had occasion to meet, and her expectations have been shaped by experience.”

“She is not unwilling to aid me, Stewart.”

“Because she does not know the consequences!”

Murdoch bristled at the notion that his Isabella was a fool. “She learns the trade of a healer. She has delivered children. I believe she knows more than most of the consequences of intimacy—of which there has been little.”

“There should have been none!”

Murdoch bit his tongue for Stewart was right.

“And what of her brother’s response? Will he abuse her? Will he ensure any child is lost, even if the price is his own sister? There are those who think highly of honor, and you know little of this laird’s inclinations.”

Murdoch felt a new chill touch him. “You assume I would not wed her.”

“I assume the laird would not wed his own sister to the thief who haunts his forest! He will see you hanged for your thefts, upon that you might rely—if not worse.” Stewart leaned closer. “There was a time when I trusted your intent, lad, a time when I thought I knew your very thoughts as well as my own.” His lips tightened. “But this I cannot understand. How could you use the maiden ill? How could you put her in peril in her brother’s household?”

“I pray I do not.”

“Prayer is not sufficient! How could you fail to return for so many years? Your father died in despair over your loss. How could you have denied him the knowledge that you are hale? How could you have let the earl believe you so sorely wounded as that?”

Murdoch met the other man’s gaze steadily. “Perhaps I had no choice.”

Stewart sighed heavily. “Perhaps you are no longer the man I believed you to be.”

Murdoch had to drop his gaze. “I am not, Stewart, that much is certain. I am both more and less.”

“I see the less but not the more,” Stewart said. He gave Murdoch one last look, then spurred his horse onward, quickly leaving Murdoch behind.

Murdoch slowed Zephyr as the shadow of the forest drew closer, reluctant to enter the domain of the Elphine Queen again. He clung to the vestige of warmth yet within him, the gossamer memory of Isabella’s touch, and tried to bolster his courage for the night ahead. She would come to him again, he knew as much, and she would be less inclined to leave him be than even the night before.

He could not surrender.

He could not cede.

Murdoch must be strong, even as his body fell prey to her spell. He must survive the new moon somehow, that he could court Isabella with honor. If nothing else, he must see the relic restored to Seton Manor.

He told himself all of this, noting that every shadow was infested with the light of the Fae. It was yet morning and he knew the Elphine Queen’s power would grow by night. He felt cold with a sudden vigor that could only be their fault, and he saw ghosts hovering in the shadows, too.

He turned Zephyr and rode across Kinfairlie’s fields, needing to think and knowing it would not be possible within the shadow of Kinfairlie’s forest.

* * *

The tea made from the wild thyme was murky and dark green. Isabella had found the plant beneath the snow, exactly where the smith had said it grew, its pungent and distinct scent all the identification necessary. It was very similar to the kitchen thyme in growing habit, but smaller with tiny leaves. Like the kitchen thyme, it seemed to slumber in winter and its leaves had turned a dark green. Isabella compared what she had harvested from beneath the snow on the mill bank one last time with the thyme in the kitchen garden before she brewed her tea.

The scent was strong, and she was relieved that they were roasting fowl in the kitchens that day for it and the herbs used with it disguised the scent of Isabella’s tea. As she waited for her brew to cool, she made another posset for Eleanor ensuring that she added more mint to the posset this time to further obscure the pungent smell of the wild thyme.

Isabella eyed the brew, murmured a prayer, then drank the tea. The taste was not unpleasant, though it was not a brew she would have consumed by choice. She felt no different after she had drunk it, and certainly she saw nothing different in her surroundings.

Despite herself, she was disappointed. She did not have to pretend to be unable to see the Fae, for still she could not see them.

Isabella picked up the hot posset for Eleanor, intending to deliver it to the solar.

She had time to reach the darkness at the base of the stairs to the tower, time to wonder whether Moira and the smith were mad, time to consider what she might do next, and then the shadows exploded into sound and activity.

At first Isabella thought that Kinfairlie’s keep was infested with mice. There were small creatures scuttling in the shadows, running across the stairs in front of her, leaping into the shadows in the corners. They were dark and small.

But they were not mice.

No, they were tiny, misshapen men with squinted eyes and bent noses. They reminded Isabella of the old willows by the river in the forest, the gnarled trees with whorls and knots in their roots and boughs. They were twisted and dark-skinned, as if tanned by the sun, and wizened with apparent age. They moved quickly and furtively, scrambling in a manner not unlike mice.

They could not have been a hand span in height and were so numerous that they flowed like quicksilver. There were hundreds of them, seemingly on all sides, the shadows and corners moving with their frantic movement, as they crawled over each other.

It was only with closer examination—while pretending to be study the toe of her boot—that Isabella saw the blue whorls on their skin. The blue was not so dark that it stood out against the tanned brown of their flesh, but when she looked it was there.

The pattern was exactly like that on Murdoch’s flesh.

And the creatures sang.

Isabella did not understand all of the words of their songs. She recognized some Gaelic amidst the cacophony of sound, and caught some snippets of English, too. They were raucous and they laughed at their own verses, which left her in no doubt that some of their language was crude, if not rude. Their voices made her shudder, high and squeaking or low and guttural. Either way, it was hard to pretend that she was oblivious to them.

How had she managed to not hear them before?

It was clear that they assumed she was still unaware of them and Isabella recalled the warnings Moira and the smith had given. She pretended to continue on her way, keeping her expression impassive even though she was shocked by the sheer numbers of them. It was not easily done. She feared to step on one of them as they raced across her path, or to react to an overheard lewd verse. Their earthy commentary became more clear, and she pretended to be among the men at the stables when they were unaware of her presence.

Isabella assumed that this was what her sister Elizabeth saw. Which one of the small creatures was Darg? Or was Darg even present? She wondered whether Elizabeth often saw so many Fae at once, because she only ever mentioned Darg. Were these spriggans or another kind of Fae? Isabella would not have known a spriggan from a bogle by sight, though she had heard tales of both.

That was when she heard their verses merge into a single chorus.

“Gold and silver at last regained, only to be at risk again. Kings and queens would claim our hoard, unless we ensure ’tis safely stored. Intruders gather at the gate, but our treasures, they will not take.” They spat in fury at this very idea, a scuffle breaking out amidst their numbers. “Off we hasten to Ravensmuir, to see our riches made secure.”

Isabella reached the second floor of the tower. She glanced up and saw a golden goblet pushed from the top of the stairs. It must have come from the solar, or Alexander’s chamber, maybe even from the treasury. The cup rolled and bounced, encouraged on its way by the army of small cheering Fae. It landed on the second floor, then rolled to Isabella’s feet. She put out her foot to stop it instinctively, then wondered whether she should have been able to see it.

The Fae had lunged after it, then frozen in dismay at her intervention. She felt the silence of their perusal and knew she had to pretend to be oblivious.

All the same, she was outraged. This had come from Kinfairlie. These wretched little thieving Fae meant to abscond with treasure from her brother’s holding and take it to Ravensmuir.

Which simply justified her deceiving them, the better to learn their scheme.

“Oh!” Isabella exclaimed. “However did that goblet get to be here?” She bent and picked it up, brushing the dust from it. She ignored the hissing, spitting and stamping sprites that tried to snatch at it, then cursed her when she held it aloft.

“That Moira.” Isabella shook her head. “I shall have to speak to her about leaving such items at the top of the stairs. Why, some poor soul could have tripped and fallen. Anthony might have broken a bone.” Still tsk-ing, she picked up her skirts and marched up the stairs to the third floor.

What else would they steal?

What had they stolen already?

Isabella continued to the third floor to deliver Eleanor’s posset, keeping her eyes open. When she saw four of the Fae carrying a familiar silver platter on their shoulders, keeping to the shadows lest she spy the treasure, Isabella knew the truth.

The Fae had stolen the relics from their rightful owners. It made some sense, for Darg had told Elizabeth of its conviction that the relics at Ravensmuir were its own. And the Fae would be able to slip past locked doors and invade secure treasuries.

They were taking the relics back to Ravensmuir, probably to hide them in the caverns once again—and incidentally, they would take whatever else they could claim on the way. In a way, it made sense to take the relics back to Ravensmuir, where they had been secured for years before Tynan saw them auctioned. Indeed, it made more sense to hide the relics there the more Isabella thought about it: the ruins of collapsed Ravensmuir were known to be unsafe. Few humans would dare to enter the remains of that keep in order to search for a hoard of treasure that all knew had been sold and moved.

Which simply meant that she had to tell Murdoch about the Fae and interrupt the procession of treasures before they ever reached Ravensmuir. That was the only way he would be able to retrieve his family’s relic. If the Fae were moving their valuables on this night, she had little time to waste. Murdoch would have this one chance to retrieve his brother’s property, and she would have this one chance to save her brother’s reputation.

Isabella had need of a horse.

Chapter Ten

Rhys FitzHenry was glad to be within shouting distance of Kinfairlie keep. He could not blame his lady wife for wanting to visit her family and to lend aid to her brother’s wife. He had argued in favor of a spring visit, for Madeline was only just recovering from the delivery of their daughter. Rhys would have been content to have remained at home with his family in winter.

On the other hand, there was naught he could deny his lady wife when she was determined. Madeline was convinced that Eleanor had need of her, and Rhys saw only one way to allay her fears.

So they rode to Kinfairlie.

Their party was small, just a maid, a squire and another man-at-arms. Their initial plan had been to stop nightly to let the horses rest, keeping their own steeds instead of changing mounts. It had meant slower passage, but Rhys was not of a mind to relinquish any of his horses to the hand of another, even for a short period of time. In addition, he had thought a slower passage would make the journey easier for the children.

Against all expectation, it had become wickedly cold these past few days, cold enough that Rhys had refused to ride on several mornings. The wind sent a chill through his bones that left him shivering long after they were seated before the fire in an inn. Rhys had never known even the north to be this cold, and Madeline—who had grown up at Kinfairlie—agreed with his assessment in that. Due to the weather, they had made even slower progress than Rhys had hoped. It had been by his own choices, but still he chafed to arrive.

’Twas a relief indeed to know that they would be at Kinfairlie’s hall within the hour. It was only just falling dark, the evening coming early this time of year. Rhys was glad that soon there would be meat upon a board before him, ale to quench a traveler’s thirst and warm beds for the children.

His son, Dafydd, dozed in the saddle before him, his father’s grasp keeping him from falling. The boy had not seen three summers, but he was tall for his age and hale. He was his father’s pride. His daughter, Rhiannon, was only months old and slept in a length of cloth bound around Madeline’s shoulders. The child was close enough to nurse, if necessary, as they rode, and also to share Madeline’s heat. Madeline, even now, had her fur-lined cloak closed around the child. Her face was too rosy, though, pinkened from the cold, and Rhys would see her before a fire with all haste.

The shadow of Kinfairlie’s forest closed around them, the boundary marker well behind them, and Rhys felt an increment of tension ease from his shoulders.

Soon.

It was strangely dark and cold in the forest, given that the trees were barren of leaves. Rhys glanced upward, noting the blue of the late afternoon sky. He could still see the sun in the west, hovering above the horizon, and could not imagine why the forest was so very dark. It must be a trick of the light.

“Do you finally cease to fret?” Madeline demanded, a twinkle in her eye. “By all the saints in heaven, Rhys, you worry more than a hundred old women.”

“I but show a care for the welfare of my family,” Rhys protested with a smile. He was well accustomed to his wife teasing him for his protectiveness, though he knew she relied upon it. “’Tis not the finest time of year to journey all the length of England, never mind with a young son and a babe.”

Madeline’s smile faded and she reached to touch the back of his hand. “I know, Rhys, but Alexander’s missive at Yuletide left me uneasy. I cannot help but fear for Eleanor.”

“But he said she was well enough with the child, just as before.” Rhys protested by rote, for they had had this discussion a dozen times or more.

Madeline winced. “You know as well as I that she always does more than she should, and I fear that she will demand too much of herself. With a child in her belly, she should retire to the solar more often, but she will not do it if she sees tasks to be done.”

“Your sisters are there.”

“But there is labor she will not entrust to them. I know Eleanor.” Rhys saw his lady’s concern and turned his hand so that he clasped her fingers. She sighed. “I simply would be of aid to Eleanor, and do what I can to ensure the safe arrival of their child.”

“I understand,” Rhys agreed quietly. “But know that if ’twas any less than the full desire of your heart to do this thing, I should have insisted we remain at home.”

“You tried as much.” Madeline’s grip tightened on his fingers. “Thank you for indulging my whim, anwylaf.” The pair shared a smile that made Rhys yearn for the warm bed he would share with his lady on this night.

He reluctantly released her hand. “You, too, should be resting abed in the solar.”

Madeline smiled. “Perhaps Eleanor and I shall nap together.” Her smile turned mischievous. “Or would you prefer that I slept the nights with my brother’s wife, as well?”

“I should not!” Rhys protested, savoring the way his Madeline laughed. The baby hiccupped and she peeked beneath her cloak. She whispered to the child and Dafydd stirred restlessly before Rhys.

“Have we arrived as yet?” he asked, squirming in a most familiar way.

“Soon,” Rhys told the boy. “’Twill be soon enough.”

“But I cannot wait.” The boy cupped his hand over himself and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have to piss!”

Rhys shared a smile with Madeline, then indicated the side of the road. “The path is straight and we are within Kinfairlie’s bounds. Carry on and we shall catch up before you leave the forest.”

“’Twill be better thus,” Madeline agreed. “’Twill be an hour before we are free of the welcome we are sure to gain.”

“It will be all the greater for our arriving unannounced,” Rhys said, then halted his steed.

He lifted down Dafydd and helped him with his chausses, impressed when the boy loosed an impressive volume. “You fared well in this,” he murmured, glad he had not found himself riding in dampness. Dafydd sighed with such relief that Rhys found himself grinning.

Rhys stood between the horse and the boy, his gaze flicking between the party that continued through the woods and his son. He crouched to help Dafydd refasten his chausses just as a cry rang through the woods.

“Halt!” shouted a male voice Rhys did not recognize. “Halt and surrender all of value.”

Rhys straightened in alarm, holding his son close. What was this? Thieves in Kinfairlie’s forest?

Horses whinnied and shied on the road ahead. Rhys saw more shadows, surrounding his family’s party. He saw the flash of a blade and Madeline’s maid screamed.

“Rhys!” Madeline cried and Rhys’ blood ran cold.

He seized his son, those chausses still unlaced, and swung into his saddle. He bound the boy to the pommel before him, even as he gave his spurs to his horse. “Be quiet and brave,” Rhys counseled his son as they galloped down the road. “I need you to remain with the horse and ensure his safety, no matter what happens.”

Dafydd nodded, his heart thundering beneath Rhys’ hand. Rhys felt his son’s fear more keenly than his own concern, and knew he would have the liver of the man who dared to threaten his own family.

And if Madeline sustained so much as a scratch, he would make that villain watch his own disembowelment.

* * *

The Fae were everywhere.

Isabella could not believe as much, but her own eyes revealed the truth. They were thick on the rafters in the stables, and there were eyes peering from the stacks of hay in the corners. She concocted some tale about wanting a ride and the ostler saddled a mare for her, so untroubled by the pinching fingers and cackling Fae that surrounded him that Isabella knew he could not be pretending to be oblivious.

How did Elizabeth bear the sight? How was it that she spoke only of Darg when there was the Fae were so numerous? Isabella would have to ask her.

Maybe something had changed.

A pair of trolls stood sentinel beside the gatekeeper, as impassive as a pair of standing stones. The air was full of glittering golden dust, some of which proved to be small winged Fae, laughing as they swooped through the air.

As Isabella rode across Kinfairlie’s fields, she could not help but notice that the concentration of Fae became greater with every step the horse took. The forest seemed to emanate a radiance unlike anything she had ever seen before. She could have been riding into a swarm of fireflies, approaching the vortex of their flock.

The mare seemed drawn to the golden light and Isabella let her choose her own path through the bracken. She had a feeling that Murdoch would be found where the light was brightest, but she was mistaken.

The light emanated from a Fae court.

It could be nothing else. Isabella halted the horse to stare on the marvel of the sight. Golden light with no particular source lit the clearing in the forest, creating a glowing half-sphere. Within the illuminated space, courtiers danced—courtiers with wings and antennae and heads that were not human. They ranged in size from being twice the height of Isabella to being small enough to stand upon her palm. Their laughter was like the tinkle of silver bells and their music was both haunting and infectious.

In the midst of the circle sat a couple playing chess, each of them enthroned as they leaned over the board from opposing sides. The man had a long dark beard, which he stroked with elegant fingers. His robes were crimson and embroidered with gold, the hem of his cloak edged in white ermine fur. He wore rings on every finger and his pale green wings arched high overhead, fluttering slightly as he considered his play. His crown was as gold as sunlight, gleaming so brightly that Isabella could scarce look upon it.

The woman’s hair was as dark as midnight, and it flowed over her shoulders, past her hips. Her eyes could have been deep pools and her lips were as red as blood. She was dressed in silver and black, like a goddess of the night, stars seemingly stitched onto her mantle and frost ornamenting its hems.

She wore a crown that could have been made of spider webs garnished with dewdrops. The water beads glittered like crystals, shimmering when she moved her head to speak to one of her attendants. Her wings rose dark and large behind her. They looked like black lace and they fluttered slightly. In pleasure? Anticipation? Isabella could not say.

And all over the skin of both of them was the same blue tracery that Isabella had seen on Murdoch’s wrist. Indeed, every denizen of the court was so marked, leaving no doubt what Isabella saw. She knew she should turn away, she knew she should close her eyes to the frantic swirl of the small Fae that could have been fireflies, but she could not imagine how she would ever pretend to be oblivious to this sight.

The dark queen held some item on her lap. She lifted it and turned it in the light, examining its contents. With horror, Isabella saw that it was a crystal orb, one that glowed faintly with an inner light.

And within it pulsed a wet red heart.

Even knowing that she should flee, Isabella urged the horse closer. She had to see that heart.

She had to know whose it was.

Half of the heart had turned dark and dead, looking more like the rotting leaves on the forest floor than a source of life and vitality. A winged courtier fluttered beside the orb, the tiny blue Fae circling the crystal as she examined its contents.

“Murdoch challenges you,” the king said, amusement in his tone. “I like him well, for it does not suit a man to be too biddable.”

Isabella knew then that Moira had been right. This dark queen had put the marks on Murdoch’s flesh. And that was why he refused to discuss them, why they terrified him, because he knew the Fae queen’s intent.

“He will be mine in the end, no matter how much you meddle.” The dark queen stroked the orb, kissed it and cradled it in her hands. Her smile was hungry and not very kind.

The king smiled and moved a piece on the board. The queen’s eyes flashed like thunder. She snatched up the orb and kicked over the board. “You will not cheat me of my prize!” she roared.

Isabella felt a strange wind rise then, one filled with shadows and rot. It emanated from the queen, swirling like a tempest. It spun around the regal pair as the king held his ground, carrying a spiral of dark leaves up to the sky along with it. She had the vague sense of the dark queen spreading her cloak wide to float over the entire forest, then that wind buffeted her so hard that she had to close her eyes against its onslaught. She guessed then that the wind that had tormented Kinfairlie had arrived with this queen, because she hunted Murdoch.

And misfortune followed her.

Isabella had no sooner realized as much than the king clapped his hands and the entire court disappeared. In the blink of an eye, it was gone, gone so surely it might not have been. The forest might have held its breath and the horse shuddered, sensing some peril close at hand.

When a woman screamed, Isabella jumped.

That the woman screamed a man’s name told her who it was.

Her sister, Madeline.

Isabella shouted to the horse and charged through the forest toward the road, fearing the worst.

* * *

Gavin heard the party enter Kinfairlie’s forest and slipped through the trees to see. He watched from the shadows, calculating the damage he might do in Lord Murdoch’s stead. That man had not yet returned, and Stewart had fallen asleep in their camp, still tired from the long day of riding the day before.

These looked to be guests arriving. Noble, but the cut of their garb and the quality of their horses. It was a small party and one poorly defended.

A lady alone with three attendants: a man-at-arms, a woman and a mere boy.

Gavin caught his breath. He gave the whistle that he and Hamish used to find each other in the forest, and heard the other squire whistle in reply. Gavin hunkered low to watch the party proceed.

Hamish fell into the undergrowth beside him. Gavin whispered of his plan to aid their lord, and Hamish’s eyes widened. He shook his head, and Gavin let him see his disgust. He seized his dagger and pulled it from the scabbard. He gave Hamish one last look, daring him to remain hidden when there was a task to be done. Hamish grimaced and drew his own blade.

Gavin grinned. His heart pounded. He eased closer to the road, watching the lady and her maid pass. Hamish seized his arm and held up four fingers, shaking his head. Gavin brushed off these concerns. Lord Murdoch had escaped an entire village! He pointed to Hamish and then the squire, then indicated himself and the man-at-arms. He held up two fingers, excited beyond belief at what they would do, then counted down to one. When he thrust his fist into the air, the boys erupted on to the road together.

“Halt!” Gavin cried and the party did exactly thus. “Halt and surrender your valuables.” He leapt at the man-at-arms, then everything happened very fast.

* * *

When Murdoch arrived at their camp, he could not decide whether to awaken Stewart, for that man slept deeply. He winced at the tightness in his chest, telling himself not to be surprised by the Elphine Queen’s inevitable appearance. He was tired to his very bones, and indeed, the forest seemed dim around him.

Where were the boys? Perhaps they checked the traps for meat. Murdoch brushed down Zephyr, finding the task more exhausting than it should have been. He could feel his heart struggling to beat, as if the Elphine Queen clenched it in her fist and squeezed. He brought water to the horse, stumbling as he carried it from the river. He wondered again at their location, even as Stewart snored more loudly. Doubtless they made some mischief or other.

“Rhys!” a lady screamed and Murdoch nearly dropped the bucket.

Stewart awakened abruptly, his gaze locking with Murdoch’s as the sounds of swordplay carried from the direction of the road.

Murdoch suddenly had a very good idea what mischief the boys had found.

He seized his sword and ran through the undergrowth, Stewart fast behind him. The pair of them burst on to the road to find a robbery in progress, Gavin and Hamish battling with a small party of nobles. There were four in the party altogether: a noblewoman, a maid, a squire and a man-at-arms.

Before their own eyes, the man-at-arms leapt from his saddle to place himself between Gavin and the noblewoman. He dashed Gavin’s knife from his hand and sent it flying across the road. “I shall teach you to rob a lady,” that fighting man said and Gavin stood as if struck to stone.

Hamish meanwhile wrestled with a squire, the other boy halfway out of the saddle but hanging on as the horse panicked. The boy kicked Hamish and his grip faltered. He rallied, though, and pulled the boy from the saddle, the two of them struggling on the road.

“God in heaven,” Stewart muttered behind Murdoch. “Here is a matter gone awry.”

“No! Halt this madness!” Murdoch roared and the two leapt into the fray.

The man-at-arms dove at Gavin with a bellow, but Stewart bounded forward to fight with him. Their swords clashed overhead as Gavin ducked, the pair of men fighting heavily, back and forth across the road. The noblewoman shouted at the maid, commanding the girl to come to her side.

She seemed to be in charge of her party and Murdoch guessed that she alone could command her man to halt. Her steed pranced in agitation but Murdoch seized the reins, holding fast. “Who is Rhys?” he demanded of her and the lady smiled.

“My lord husband. He shall slaughter the lot of you and rightly so.” She glanced down the road, her expression triumphant.

Murdoch spun to look down the road and saw a horse charging out of the shadows toward him, a man bent forward in the saddle. He rode with fury and Murdoch realized that the lady was not undefended.

“Tell your man to halt his fight,” Murdoch said and the lady tugged at the horse’s reins. His fingers were so icy that he could not hold fast and the reins slid from his grip

“I will surrender naught to bandits,” she retorted, then touched her heels to her horse’s side. The beast began to canter toward Kinfairlie, but the lady looked back at her maid. “Come along, Bronwen!”

The maid could not pursue her mistress, though, because Gavin had seized her stirrup. He was trying to pull himself into the saddle behind her. She fought against him but the boy was determined.

“Ride, Madeline!” the approaching knight bellowed with rage. “Ride!”

The lady spared a glance to Murdoch, then gave her horse her heels in truth. Murdoch leapt and snatched at the stirrup, but the horse bolted at her command. It was clear the horses knew each other well, for the two with empty saddles galloped immediately after the lady’s own steed.

The maid was obviously inspired by her lady’s bravery. She kicked Gavin and when he fell back with a grunt, she gave her horse her heels, as well.

The arriving warrior leapt from his saddle as he drew close to Murdoch. He landed like a rock upon Murdoch, bearing him to the ground. The knight was armored and solidly muscled, as well, the force of impact stealing Murdoch’s breath away. The warrior’s destrier continued to race onward, following the lady and the other horses.

Indeed, Murdoch heard the lady call to the beast. He battled the knight, managing to get to his feet, only to be punched hard in the stomach. Murdoch doubled over in pain, wishing that he, too, wore his armor for this fight. He glanced up at the anger in the knight’s eyes and knew the man would kill him without hesitation.

“How dare you accost my wife?” the knight muttered through his teeth, his accent so thick that it took Murdoch a moment to understand him.

“I did not accost her. It was an error...”

“Indeed it was.”

Murdoch swung at the knight and managed to punch him in the nose. The knight roared as blood spurted, then kicked Murdoch square in the crotch.

Murdoch fell to his knees, dizzy at the pain. He heard the Elphine Queen laugh in the distance. Did she care whether she claimed him dead or alive?

The knight clutched a fistful of his hair and tipped his head up so that their gazes met. Murdoch had time to see the furious glint of the knight’s eyes before he too was punched in the nose. The knight flung him backward and Murdoch felt the warm trickle of blood on his face even as he landed on his back in the undergrowth.

The knight turned away and Murdoch heard Hamish squeak in terror.

But a moment later the boy’s footsteps could be heard as he raced through the forest. If Murdoch’s ears did not deceive him, Gavin was directly behind him. Stewart gave a roar and the man-at-arms shouted in pain. Murdoch rose to his feet to see the man-at-arms on his knees, his face white and his shoulder bleeding.

He passed out and fell bonelessly to the ground.

The knight abandoned Murdoch and shouted with anger. He lunged toward Stewart and their blades clashed.

“Vermin,” the knight spat as he fought, his anger undiminished. “Thieves and brigands are as vermin and should be slaughtered as such.”

Murdoch moved quietly behind the knight, inching toward his fallen sword. He managed to retrieve it without either man apparently noticing his movement. His hands shook, but he laid claim to the blade and held it before himself with both hands. Murdoch crept up behind the knight, knowing that Stewart was watching his approach. The knight and Stewart fought back and forth, their blades ringing through the forest.

Murdoch lifted his own blade and made to strike.

But he was shocked by the knight’s sudden move. That knight spun to face Murdoch, his heavy blade swinging in an arc intended to slice Murdoch across the gut. Clearly, he too, had been listening to Murdoch’s approach. Murdoch had a heartbeat to realize he could not move quickly enough to save himself and to see the knight’s grin of satisfaction.

Then a woman shouted from behind him. “Rhys! No!”

The knight froze, his blade only a finger-span from Murdoch. “Isabella?” he said, his confusion complete.

In truth, the two men had that confusion in common.

* * *

Murdoch spun to find Isabella galloping toward him, her hair flowing behind her and her eyes snapping with anger. “What madness is this, that you would assault my own kin?” she demanded of Murdoch. She pointed after the departed party. “My own sister! She has only just had a child, and you attack her on the road to her family home!”

“You know this brigand?” the knight demanded. The tip of his blade touched the ground in his astonishment.

Murdoch and Isabella both ignored him.

“This was not for you to witness!” Murdoch informed the lady, finding himself furious that she should discover him in this act. It was bad enough that he was compelled to act against his own conscience. To be called to task for it by Isabella—no, to be interrupted in the midst of it by Isabella, to be saved by Isabella—was too much.

“Yet you would do it all the same!” Isabella’s eyes flashed and her horse pranced around Murdoch. “You promised me that you would cease thieving this very morning. Is your pledge worth so little that you cannot hold it for a single day?”

“I did not attack them...”

“I beg to differ with your view of the situation,” Rhys interjected.

“The boys acted of their own volition,” Murdoch explained. “I had to intervene to ensure that no one was injured.”

To his astonishment, this argument was not contested. Instead, Isabella leaned down from the saddle, her lips parting in horror. “God in heaven, what has she done to you?”

Murdoch took a step back. “Who do you mean?”

“That dark queen in the forest,” Isabella said and Murdoch was horrified in his turn. Isabella had seen the Elphine Queen? Had the Elphine Queen seen Isabella? What price would be demanded for that?

Was Isabella imperiled because of him?

“This is what she has done to you.” The lady surveyed him while he struggled to find a response and he feared she missed no detail. “It is more than the marks upon your flesh. Your eyes become dark as well.” Her lips parted in horror. “She means to make you one of them!”

Murdoch felt as if his wits were addled, and his thoughts moved more slowly than was customary. Even his speech was slowed as that pervasive chill claimed his body. “How could you see her?” he whispered.

“I drank tea of wild thyme,” Isabella explained, her manner dismissive. “Every detail hinted at the presence of the Fae and that potion gives one the power to see them. I can see them now. I saw her, and I can see what she has done to you in truth.” Her expression was filled with a dismay that tore at his innards. “Murdoch! Why did you not tell me!”

Murdoch could not think of what to say.

“Isabella! How well do you know this rogue?” the knight demanded from behind him. Murdoch glanced back, realizing too late how much had been overheard.

“Of greater import, how well do you know my wife’s sister?” The knight glared at Murdoch, then shook a finger. “If you have laid a hand upon the lady, even if you have not stolen her innocence, I shall be glad to see you gutted and left to die.” He raised his blade and swung it anew.

Murdoch lifted his own sword, knowing he moved too late. The chill impeded him, made his grip faulty and slowed his reactions. He watched the blade swing toward him once again and knew he would taste its bite.

Isabella cried a protest. “Rhys, no!”

But before the knight could land his blow, Stewart stepped up behind him and struck the back of his head hard with the hilt of his sword.

The knight staggered in place for a moment, then his eyes rolled up and he crumpled on the ground.

“Murdoch!” Isabella declared with horror, her horse stamping. “This is unacceptable! Your man has assaulted my sister’s husband!”

“What was I to do?” Stewart demanded. “Let him cut down my lord?”

“You could have left them pass safely through the forest,” the lady fumed, her eyes flashing.

“I told you, it was the boys...”

“They are your boys all the same, and they have learned this feat from you.”

“She speaks the truth in that,” Stewart muttered, then smiled at Isabella. “Look upon the bright side. He is not truly injured. Slightly bruised, and his pride perhaps more damaged than that.”

“You should not have witnessed this,” Murdoch said to Isabella.

“And you would have twice been cut down,” she retorted, a fact he could not dispute.

“You should not have ridden out alone so late in the day,” Murdoch said instead.

“But I had no choice.” She smiled. “I know where the relic is, Murdoch. My brother does not have it, but I know where it is. You can claim it and return it to your brother.”

Murdoch was amazed and found new strength in this news. His quest could be close to completion—thanks to the curiosity of his Isabella. “You have found it?” He snatched for the reins of the horse, but Isabella made the beast retreat. “Tell me where it is!”

“I will do no such thing.” Isabella retorted. “For if I do, you will set out to retrieve it and you are in no condition for such a quest. I have eyes in my head and I can see the truth of it.”

Stewart snorted, evidently seeing sense in this argument.

Isabella rode her horse in circles around Murdoch, her course making him dizzy. “You will apologize to my sister, and show honor to her husband by bringing him with care to Kinfairlie’s hall. You shall beg my brother’s forgiveness before we retrieve the relics—for they are all together.”

“Amen,” Stewart said softly. “Some soul in this matter finally speaks sense.”

“No,” Murdoch insisted. “We shall not go to Kinfairlie together. I will not step into the lion’s den. You presume much about your brother’s response.”

“I know him!”

But Murdoch was skeptical. He feared that Isabella’s brother would not hear his plea quickly and he had precious little time to waste. It was a week’s ride to Seton Manor and only a fortnight until the new moon. He fixed her with a determined glare. “You will tell me where the relic is, and I shall collect my brother’s property. When Stewart is safely on his way home, then and only then will I surrender to your brother’s justice. Tell me where it is.”

“No,” Isabella replied. “It is her plan to see you condemned, I am certain of it, and must be part of her ploy to claim you forever.”

Murdoch did seize the horse’s bridle then. “What did you see?”

“I saw the Fae queen who would claim you.” She reached out and seized his wrist, pushing back his glove. “The one who put these marks upon you.” She regarded him with curiosity. “Tell me, can she claim you more readily if my brother executes you? Does she pick her victims from the dead?”

“Does she know that you saw her?”

“I do not know. I fear I gasped when I saw the orb.” Isabella winced. “It was not, perhaps the wisest course, but it is done.”

That chill seized Murdoch once more. “What orb?”

“The one with a dying heart trapped within it.”

Stewart crossed himself and turned away, though Murdoch knew he still listened.

“Her entire court disappeared in the blink of an eye and the strangest wind arose.”

Murdoch turned away, bile in his throat. He could not believe Isabella had put herself at such risk.

Actually, he could believe that she would act on impulse to correct what she perceived to be a wrong.

But she did not know the powers of the Elphine Queen. She did not guess what price she might pay. She did not understand how vengeful that Fae queen could be.

Murdoch had to ensure Isabella’s welfare.

Even now, he saw the Fae gathering on all sides, their eyes glinting with either malice or anticipation, and felt a chill emanating from the ground. Isabella could not be safe within this forest, not so long as the Elphine Queen hunted him.

He held fast to the horse’s reins and made one last appeal. “Tell me, Isabella, tell me where the relic is hidden.”

“I will not,” Isabella replied. The woman did not back down from a fight, that much was certain. She stood in her stirrups as if to dismount, much to Murdoch’s horror. “Lift Rhys into my saddle and I shall walk back to the hall.”

“You will do no such thing!” Murdoch declared with heat. “You will ride for Kinfairlie, you will ride there now and without delay. You will accompany your sister to the hall, and you will arrive there before it falls dark.”

Isabella lifted her chin. “I will not abandon Rhys here.”

“He will not be harmed,” Murdoch insisted.

“I will not abandon you here,” she added softly.

His lady was cursed stubborn. “You have no choice, for I will not go with you and you are not safe here.” Murdoch gestured after the departing party, when she opened her mouth to protest again. “Go see your sister.”

“You promised me...” Isabella began to chide and Murdoch lost his temper.

He would say whatever was necessary to see her safely away.

“I used you, exactly as you first imagined,” Murdoch said, interrupting her. “I gained information from you and there was no other intent in my mind than that.” Isabella stared at him with dismay. “And if you imagine that my intent was honorable, then that was your error. The sole thing I desired of you was news of the location of the relic, and since you will not tell me of that, I have no further need of your company.”

He cast the reins at her and slapped the flanks of her horse hard. Given the scent of blood, the beast was only too happy to race down the road.

“Murdoch!” the lady shouted, but even she could not halt that steed. “You lie! You lie and this matter is not done between us!”

And that, Murdoch feared, was the truth of it.

Chapter Eleven

Stewart chuckled. “A fair attempt, lad, but she sees through your fabrication well enough. Perhaps it comes of being able to see the Fae.”

Murdoch sobered at that. “I would have the lady forget me.”

“I fear ’tis too late for that, lad.” Stewart peered at the younger man. “Is she right? Is it a curse that has haunted this journey?”

Murdoch nodded. “I did not think you would believe me, if I told you the truth.”

The older man nodded. “Fair enough, lad, but I have witnessed enough in my time to know that not all is seen by all eyes.” He cleared his throat. “I know you mean well to send the lady away, but she is not fooled by your hasty lie. I would dare to suggest to you that such spells as the one that snares you can be broken—by both persistence and affection.” Stewart held his gaze. “It is not without reason that the bards sing of the power of true love.”

Despite the cold that crept through his body, Murdoch found encouragement in the older man’s words. “I have thought that the Lady Isabella might be my salvation,” he admitted. “The thought of her does keep the darkness at bay.”

Stewart nodded. “It is best a man follows his heart in such circumstance. Even in failure, the intent then has been honorable.”

Murdoch frowned. “I was wounded when the Elphine Queen took me into her abode, Stewart. The wound festered and I was fevered.”

“The wound the earl spoke of,” Steward mused. “You are not lamed because it was healed by the Fae.”

Murdoch nodded. “She has threatened to return me to that state should I spurn her.” He sighed and met the concern in Stewart’s gaze. “Shall I bind my lady’s fate to that of a man who might be lamed?”

“You do not know that!”

“It is much to assume a woman would still accept a man in such a state, had she the choice.”

Stewart pursed his lips as he considered this. “And you will never know unless you ask her.” He arched a brow. “I think the risk a small one, lad.”

Murdoch surveyed at the fallen knight and his men, considering Stewart’s advice. Despite himself, he felt a new surge of hope, a hope that he could triumph over the Elphine Queen with Isabella’s aid.

He knew then with clarity what he must do. “You must leave Kinfairlie, Stewart. There is a storm brewing and no telling what shall result from it. Already the boys have learned what they should not. Take them and depart immediately for Seton Manor.

The older man gave Murdoch a quizzical glance. “What will you do?”

“I ride for Kinfairlie.”

“Into the lion’s den,” Stewart said with a smile.

“To beg the forgiveness of my lady and her assistance, for she holds the key to all.”

Stewart grinned and clapped his hand on Murdoch’s shoulder. “Oh, lad, I am glad to know that you are indeed your father’s son.”

They embraced, then parted, though only Murdoch feared it might be for all time.

* * *

Just the recollection of the sight of Rhys’ blade swinging so close to Murdoch’s gut was enough to make Isabella feel faint.

Murdoch had not looked hale, even the hue of his flesh changing to grey. His eyes were so dark that one could not discern the blue and he had not fought with his usual vigor. Indeed, it had seemed that he could scarcely even lift his own blade.

Isabella did not doubt that Murdoch had sent her away for her own safety. As much as she admired that impulse, she was not prepared to stand aside.

How could she retrieve the relic herself? Would that break the spell?

She caught up to Madeline and the others just before Kinfairlie village. Madeline was clearly frightened and she held her baby tightly. Dafydd was bound to Rhys’ saddle, though he did not cry. He appeared to share some of his father’s grim determination. A maid rode one horse and held the reins of the one bearing Dafydd, presumably because Madeline did not dare to halt so that the boy could be untied. The other two horses stayed close to those with riders, although their reins trailed on the ground.

“Isabella!” Madeline exclaimed. “Why are you outside the gates?”

“I went for a ride. I was returning when I heard you cry out.”

“There are brigands in Kinfairlie’s forest! You should not be alone.” It was a mercy that Madeline was sufficiently upset to have no further questions.

Isabella asked questions of her oldest sister instead. “What happened? Are you well? Are you injured?”

“We were attacked on the road. Where is Rhys? And Trahern? And the boy Norton?” Madeline’s tone rose higher as she scanned the empty road behind them. She reached out and clutched Isabella’s hand. “Tell me what you saw. What happened behind us?”

“I do not know,” Isabella lied. “I heard you and I saw you, so I followed behind. I am certain that Rhys will be fine.”

Madeline gave her a look, one that indicated that her sister knew that was only part of the tale. She looked back at the road behind, and swallowed. “I must get the children inside the hall, and see the horses tended. It is cold and becoming late. Bronwen, will you ride ahead and ensure that all is made ready for us?”

“Aye, my lady. Will you give me the babe?”

Madeline shook her head. “She is warm where she is. Take Dafydd with you. He will like the stables and the ostler may remember him.” She slanted a determined glance at Isabella. “I would speak to my sister alone.”

Isabella recognized that her moment of reprieve had passed. Madeline had calmed enough to discern that there was more to the tale—and Isabella’s older sister had the look of a woman who would have the truth and soon.

* * *

Rhys awakened when the stars were appearing overhead. His nose hurt and there was blood caked upon his face. His head throbbed and his cautious fingertips found a lump on the back of his skull.

Beyond that, he was uninjured.

He heard a groan and moved toward the sound with some care. It was the mercenary Trahern, similarly bruised. The cut on his shoulder had been only a flesh wound and it already closed.

The older man grimaced. “A pox upon thieves,” he said, pushing himself to a sitting position. “The lot of them should be rounded up and executed.”

“But it seems we have not been robbed,” Rhys noted.

Trahern scowled. “Simply beaten. I thought Kinfairlie was a safe holding.”

“As did I,” Rhys concurred. “And we have paid for our assumption.”

Another groan revealed the location of the squire Norton. “I am sorry, sir,” he said at the sight of Rhys. “I tried my best.”

“And you fought well enough. We were surprised and beset from all sides.” In truth, Rhys blamed no one but himself. On the one hand, he wished he had sliced the vagabond in half when he had the chance. On the other, Isabella’s concern for the man made him wonder if he might have come to regret doing so. He did not expect to change his view of the bandit in the forest of his own volition, but Madeline had been known to urge Rhys to a new perspective.

He glanced toward the distant keep of Kinfairlie. “I only hope my lady is well.”

Trahern coughed and winced, holding his gut as he eyed Rhys. “And you, sir? Are you hale enough?”

“I shall survive,” Rhys admitted, his gaze darting over the shadows of the forest. All was quiet and still there. He did not doubt that the bandits were well-hidden, or that they would know this forest better than he. It would be a fool who would seek them out at night.

Daylight, however, was another matter.

Indeed, a desire for vengeance already burned within him. They three were alive and not so badly injured, but the matter could have ended much worse. And Madeline! Never mind the children. If any of them had borne a scratch, Rhys would never rest until the villain was brought to justice.

Rhys looked again at the keep of Kinfairlie, its windows lit even at this hour. He feared that Madeline was frightened and guessed that if she were well, she would be watching for him, despite the hour. He had best hasten to the keep to see her worries set to rest.

Why had the thieves let them live and keep their possessions? Had they stolen the horses? Did they simply not want to compound their crime by killing? Rhys doubted that Alexander’s court would exonerate them either way. Even as thieves, they could be executed for humiliating the laird’s guests.

But more importantly, how did Isabella know the brigands?

* * *

There was a tremendous fuss over Madeline’s arrival, and much concern over the assault in the woods. Isabella found it difficult to refrain from sharing what she knew—although no one seemed to expect that she knew any detail more than Madeline, she was irked that they insisted upon calling the deed a robbery when there had been no theft.

It was unjust. Murdoch was condemned by them all, though he had done little wrong. Isabella yearned to defend him when he was unable to do so, but knew it would only draw undue attention to her.

It was certainly the kind of risk Murdoch himself had advised her to avoid.

Instead, she savored the knowledge that Murdoch had tried to keep his vow to her, that he had tried to intervene to avoid injuries, that he cared sufficiently for her welfare to send her to safety. She worried about the progress of those marks upon his flesh and the darkness that claimed his gaze. She feared the Elphine Queen’s intent and could not forget the sight of the orb that held a beating heart captive.

She could not endure it if he was lost to the dark queen and she never saw him hale again. It was clear the trap closed and quickly.

How could she be of aid? This was knowledge she would not find in books, or even from Eleanor. If any knew it, they would be unlikely to share it for fear of attracting the attention of the Fae. Why had the smith muttered about selfless deeds? Isabella yearned to ask him more, but she was trapped within Kinfairlie’s hall as surely as if she had been locked away in a high tower. The morn, which would be her first chance to go to the village, seemed too far away.

Meanwhile, Kinfairlie’s hall bustled with preparations. Alexander himself led a party of men to the forest to search for Rhys, although Eleanor was much concerned by his departure so late in the day. A bath was summoned for Madeline and the evening meal was hastened to the board, children were fussed over, and whispers abounded. The Fae that Isabella had seen earlier were absent, and she wondered whether they had already moved their spoils to Ravensmuir.

Would she be able to think of an excuse to go there in the morning? Would it be too late? Would it be better that she went to the smith or Ravensmuir? What about Murdoch? She might have talked to Elizabeth, but her younger sister seemed determined to evade her.

The women sat in the hall long after the board was cleared, waiting for the return of Alexander and his party. There was no pretence of doing needlework that night and little chatter. They sat close to one great fire, their concern palpable. Isabella considered Elizabeth, sitting opposite her, and knew that any word she said would be overheard by all. She yearned for a moment of privacy, but suspected she was not to have it before the sisters retired.

First the men would have to return. Eleanor might have paced, had Moira not forbidden as much.

Madeline did pace. “I hope Rhys is well,” she said yet again, glancing toward the portal as she bit her lip. She had made the same comment at least a dozen times, but this time, it yielded results.

There was the sound of hoof beats in the bailey and every soul in Kinfairlie’s hall rose to their feet. Moira could not halt Eleanor from striding to the portal. Anthony stood at his post near the door, bowing low as Alexander strode across the threshold.

Eleanor surveyed her husband and exhaled with obvious relief.

Alexander’s eyes flashed with fury even as he doffed his gloves. “Isabella!” he roared. He offered his hand to Eleanor, coaxing her to take the seat Anthony had abandoned. His expression remained grim.

The bottom dropped out of Isabella’s belly when she saw Rhys fast behind her brother, his expression no less formidable.

“Rhys!” Madeline ran to her spouse, who caught her close. He glared at Isabella over Madeline’s shoulder and she knew he had told Alexander what he had seen.

“What madness is this?” Alexander demanded of Isabella. “Rhys says you were there, with the renegade!”

“Nay, she gave him aid,” Rhys corrected. “And called him by name. Murdoch.”

The women of the household gasped, turning to consider Isabella.

“Is this true?” Alexander asked, his words dangerously low. “Aye or nay, Isabella?”

The entire hall was silent, every gaze locked upon Isabella.

Isabella was not going to lie. If she had any chance to clear Murdoch’s reputation with her family, this would be the start of it. “I was there,” she admitted. “I heard Madeline cry for Rhys and when I arrived, Murdoch was trying to halt his squires from robbing Rhys.”

“Rhys says otherwise. Rhys says the brigand, the man you call Murdoch, was trying to rob him.”

Isabella shook her head. “No. He pledged to me that he would halt these attacks.”

“He pledged this to you?” Alexander echoed. “And why did he owe to you such a boon?”

Isabella flushed and dropped her gaze.

Alexander swore with vigor as the hall filled with chatter.

Isabella glanced up to see Alexander turn to Anthony and murmur some command which sent the older man on a mission. Eleanor had dropped her brow to her hands. Isabella surveyed her family, realizing that they thought she had surrendered her chastity to Murdoch. They convicted him without hearing the tale!

Alexander walked toward Isabella, still in his armor, still angry. “This renegade robs my guests and my messengers, but you conjure promises from him?”

“He seeks the return of his family’s relic, bought at Ravensmuir. He believed you knew its location.”

“But I have told him otherwise. Have you defied me, Isabella, to assist this man in his lawlessness?”

Isabella swallowed. “I believed that if he had the relic returned, he would be satisfied. I believe that the thief is within Kinfairlie’s hall.” Shock passed through the company at that, and people exchanged glances of alarm. “Indeed, I know of its location and we could retrieve it...”

“Let us remain with the matter at hand.” Alexander walked closer, removing his riding gloves. “You chose to betray the trusted people of my household, on the basis of this stranger’s suspicions, specifically against my wishes in my own hall?”

“I wished only to see justice served and when I knew you innocent of his charge, I asked for his pledge...”

“The administration of justice is my responsibility!” Alexander shouted, interrupting her. “You, as my younger sister, have no legal or judicial right over mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Alexander.”

He inhaled, obviously restraining his temper. “Upstairs, Isabella. Now.” That was all Alexander said before he spun on his heel and marched up the stairs to the tower.

Perhaps he would hear the details of her tale in privacy, rather than before the entire company. Isabella dared to hope as much. Alexander was not unfair. He was angry in this moment, but his anger always faded quickly.

Isabella followed him with as much comportment as she could manage. It seemed that every soul in Kinfairlie’s hall had judged her and found her guilty, just as they had judged and found Murdoch guilty. It was hardly the place to confess that the Fae were responsible for the trouble.

Only her sister Elizabeth would believe that—and perhaps even she would not.

Rhys fell into step behind Isabella and she knew it was not coincidence.

At the top of the first flight of stairs, Alexander waited, slapping his gloves against his palm. She realized then that he was more angry than Isabella had ever seen him before. To her surprise, the door to the chamber that had once been shared by her brothers stood open and there were maids inside, sweeping the floor at Anthony’s dictate.

Alexander seized Isabella’s elbow and marched her into the chamber. At a glance from Alexander, Anthony bowed and left. The maids fled after him. Rhys shut the door firmly behind the three of them. Alexander leaned his hips against the windowsill, folded his arms across his chest and surveyed Isabella. Behind him, the sea churned in shades of silver and blue, and the first stars were appearing.

Her brother’s expression was not encouraging.

“What precisely have you done?” he asked with a quietude Isabella did not trust.

Rhys blocked the door behind Isabella, his arms folded across his chest and his expression no more encouraging. Isabella looked between the two of them and took a deep breath. “I tried to find the truth.”

“At what price and by what means?” Alexander’s eyes glinted with determination when Isabella remained silent. He was as far from the mischievous boy who had tormented Isabella for much of her life as could be possible. He reminded her of her father in this moment, when the children had been caught at some transgression. “Begin with the arrival of the renegade in this very keep and do not omit one detail of what you have done.”

Isabella knotted her hands before herself. “Murdoch came to you...”

“Murdoch, is it then?” Alexander demanded, pushing away from the window. “You know him well enough to refer to him by his Christian name? How many times have you seen him? How many times have you spoken to him?” He spun to face her. “What else have you done with him?”

“Let her tell the tale,” Rhys said calmly. Alexander turned to look out the window, those gloves slapping against his palm again.

“Murdoch came to you because the relic his family had purchased at Ravensmuir had been stolen,” she said firmly. “I heard your exchange and I knew you lied to him when you said you knew naught of it.”

Alexander glanced over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon? You heard our exchange? How was that possible when you were in your chamber and I was in a room a floor above?”

Isabella blushed. “I listened at the door.”

Alexander glared at her.

“I thought he had come courting and wished to know which sister’s hand he sought. I listened. I did not anticipate what I would hear.”

“Fair enough,” Rhys said quietly and Alexander’s lips tightened.

“But you lied, Alexander,” Isabella continued, her own voice rising. “You said you did not know anything about the relic, much less its disappearance, but his tidings were not a surprise to you, I heard as much in your voice.”

Alexander began to pace. “You eavesdropped upon a conversation you should not have heard and you accuse me of dishonesty.”

“Yes,” Isabella acknowledged. “I also knew you could not be the thief...”

“I thank you for that endorsement of my character.”

“...and that you could not even know the identity of the thief, for you would have ensured justice was served. You would never stand by and let injustice continue.” Alexander gave her a pointed glance and Isabella took a deep breath. “Murdoch did not believe me, though, so I thought to prove your innocence.”

“You are not obliged to defend me to a criminal,” Alexander began, then fell silent as he evidently realized some detail. “Wait! ’Twas you who read my correspondence. I knew someone had opened the trunk, for it was in disarray. ’Twas you who stole into my chamber and pilfered my possessions.”

“Perhaps she learns the renegade’s trade,” Rhys commented.

Isabella felt her cheeks heat yet more. “It was for the greater good!”

“We shall have to keep a list of my sister’s transgressions, Rhys, lest we forget an item or six.” Alexander fixed her with a look. “This morning, you were in the chapel in Kinfairlie village when Father Malachy arrived. You led him from the chapel with some demand that he bless the baker’s son, who proved to be surprisingly hale. The renegade fled from the chapel immediately thereafter, for village women saw him. Did you know of his presence there?”

Isabella stared at the tips of her shoes. “Yes.”

“And so you lied to the priest to ensure that the rogue could escape.” Alexander began to pace the width of the chamber. “How did you come to be in the chapel this morning when Murdoch was there? Was this an assignation?”

“I wanted to check the crypt for the stolen relics,” Isabella began but Alexander interrupted her.

“Why did you not check the treasury?”

Isabella averted her gaze.

“She did,” Rhys said softly as Alexander’s eyes blazed with anger.

Her brother exhaled and cast his gloves on the window sill. “It appears, Rhys, that we have a thief in Kinfairlie’s forest and another within its tower walls.”

With those words, Isabella knew that her brother had decided her fate.

And that she would not like his judgment.

* * *

Murdoch leaned his back against the cold stone of Kinfairlie’s tower, catching his breath as he faced the sea. The light of a lantern glowed in a window overhead and he was certain he must have been seen as he crossed the bailey.

He had approached the tower from this side because it was all in darkness. When the lantern had illuminated that window so abruptly, he had been in the open. He had dropped to the ground, certain there would be a hue and cry.

When none came, he eased forward on his belly, keeping to what shadows he could find as he worked his way toward the tower. He’d crept behind the stables to the wall of the tower and stood in the shadows now, catching his breath.

He felt better here, more like himself and more in command of his mind and body. He was warmer, as well. Was it because of Isabella’s proximity? Or was it distance from the Elphine Queen? Murdoch suspected the latter.

Which meant that he would never return to Kinfairlie’s forest.

The stables were busy, ostlers shouting and squires hustling. Who had arrived? Who had ridden out? What was happening at Kinfairlie?

Overhead, a man shouted in anger, his voice carrying easily to Murdoch’s ears.

“I beg your pardon?” that man cried. “You heard our exchange? How was that possible when you were in your chamber and I was in a room a floor above?”

It was the laird Alexander.

And clearly, he was vexed with his sister Isabella.

Murdoch did not want to imagine what the man might do to his disobedient sister. He could not even think of it. There were men who beat the women of their household, men who thought it fitting to give such women to the men in the employ of the keep for a night. Murdoch would not call it pleasure, for the lady would have none. It was true that this laird had not shown any violent tendencies, but Murdoch did not know him well—and any man could be pushed too far.

This laird sounded at his wit’s end.

Murdoch feared that in trying to save Isabella, he had only endangered her. He should never have slapped her horse and sent her away.

Although if she had remained in the forest, he could not have guessed what toll the Elphine Queen might have extracted from her.

He could not think of Isabella being abused.

No less because it would be his fault if she was.

And this changed his scheme. He could not simply ask Isabella to confide the location of the relic that he might retrieve it alone. Despite her conviction that her brother would never injure her, he dared not leave her undefended within these walls. He had to see her freed from Kinfairlie, which meant he had to take her with him.

Too late, he wondered whether she would listen to any appeal he made. Was she angry with him? He would not blame her if so. Or was she as perceptive as Stewart believed? Murdoch heartily hoped that was the case.

He considered the distance to the window, concocting a plan to best aid his lady.

Soon.

* * *

In the chamber above, Isabella was unaware of Murdoch’s presence. There were no Fae, to her relief, but her brother’s anger would take some effort to dispel. She had to hope that with time, he would calm down and listen to her side of the matter. For the moment, it was clear that any word she said would be turned against her. Isabella folded her arms across her chest and remained silent, prepared to wait out Alexander’s storm.

“Did you tell him of the contents of Alexander’s correspondence?” Rhys asked.

Isabella did not reply, seeing no reason to condemn herself further.

“Father Malachy believed that you had aided the rogue to escape,” Alexander continued, his voice rising again. “I insisted to that man that he must be mistaken. I defended you!” He flung his hands skyward. “I insisted that my sister would never have allied herself with a criminal!” He eyed her again. “I invite you to tell me that I spoke aright.”

“Murdoch’s cause is just,” Isabella said. “His family bought the relic and would see their lawful property returned. Is that not fair and right?”

“You have not told me that Father Malachy was wrong.”

“We had no assignation.”

“But you know more of this Murdoch than you should.” Alexander inhaled. “What of yesterday, when he seized you and Hermes to flee the village? Would you prefer to tell me what happened then?”

Isabella felt as if her cheeks were afire. If she admitted that Murdoch had touched her so intimately, Alexander would listen to no reason. She chose the tale less likely to infuriate her brother. “This morning, I went to the chapel to see if the stolen relics had been hidden there, and Murdoch surprised me. He wanted to know who Rosamunde was...”

Alexander took a step forward. “Rosamunde? How did he know of Rosamunde? What does he know of Rosamunde?”

“He interrupted your messenger—“

“Zounds!” Alexander bellowed. “Is there no end to his treachery?”

“He has been wronged!” Isabella shouted back. “And he perceives you to be the one responsible!”

“I do not have the relic!”

“I know this and I would defend you to him. He believes you defend another, not that you are the villain, and that because of my intervention.”

“And I should thank you for this, I suppose.” Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will guess that you have decided that I am wrong and that Murdoch is neither a renegade nor a brigand, but an honorable man who has been wronged.”

“Do not mock me for thinking as much!”

Alexander continued, his tone relentless. “And in this, you have decided that he is perfectly justified in terrorizing those who would travel the road to my holding, to steal from my family and my guests, to threaten the security of my family and to risk all the goodness that we savor here at Kinfairlie.”

“I made him vow to halt his attacks.”

Rhys cleared his throat pointedly.

“I told you what the truth of it was!” Isabella continued. “You are determined to see him convicted, and equally determined to ignore the evidence I could present...”

“Nay!” Rhys roared. “Are you mad, Isabella, to endorse this man’s nature? He is reckless and arrogant. He shows a blithe disrespect for law and order, not to mention courtesy...”

“He did not injure you,” Isabella protested.

“I might argue that,” Rhys retorted.

“He did not steal from you.”

“My dignity is beyond price.”

Isabella gritted her teeth at the stubbornness of these two men. “He did not kill you, then.”

“And I am to extend my gratitude to him for that?” Rhys demanded. “He terrorized my party and frightened both my lady wife and son.” There was such fury in Rhys’ gaze that Isabella took a step back.

“They did not know that you were kin.”

“And how would that have changed events? Not for the better, I would expect. Indeed, he might well have spilled my blood if he had known of my kinship to Alexander.” Rhys raised his voice again before Isabella could protest. “He is a rogue and a villain, Isabella, and you would have to be far more witless than I know you to be to think him a man of any merit at all.”

“You do not know him.”

“And who would wish to know him, given what we have learned thus far?” Rhys flung out his hands.

“Why do you think so well of him?” Alexander asked quietly.

“Because I know the Fae are responsible for the theft of the relics.”

Instead of being relieved, Alexander buried his head in his hands. “First Elizabeth and now you. Is there no end to the whimsy of women?” Then he fixed her with an intent look. “There are no Fae, Isabella.”

Isabella swallowed. “Yet I see them.”

Alexander inhaled sharply. “You have spun a tale, Isabella, and while it might be an entertaining one told by the fire, I fear that you have mingled your wishes with the truth. This man is not who you believe him to be, and you must trust me in this assessment.”

“You must trust me!” Isabella protested. “I am the one who has spoken with him. I am the one who has heard his side. I am the one who can better assess the manner of man Murdoch Seton is!”

“You are the one who has brought him information from within these walls,” Alexander countered. “You must face the hard truth, Isabella, that your allure to him might lie solely in your usefulness.”

Isabella folded her arms across her chest. Although she had once wondered as much herself, she now believed otherwise. “Murdoch is not like that.”

“We shall disagree in our conclusions. Should he wish to surrender himself to my court of justice and confess to his crimes, perhaps apologize to those affected by his choices in my household, I should be glad of his gesture and reconsider my judgment. But he will not do so, Isabella. Do not yearn for him.”

“The sooner you cannot provide him with information, the sooner his passion for you will fade,” Rhys said.

“That is not so!” Isabella protested.

Alexander’s voice dropped low. “Where are the chalice and platter, Isabella?”

“I do not know. It was gone...”

Alexander did not let her finish. “Did this rogue convince you to give it to him? Is that why you met him in the chapel? Did he vow to you that this was the best way to prompt my memory, to ensure that I had something to gain in exchange for his family relic which I do not possess?”

“No! Of course not. I would not do any such thing.”

Alexander lifted one dark brow and Rhys cleared his throat.

They could not believe her capable of such deceit!

No, they thought her beguiled.

“No one has been injured,” Isabella insisted. “He ensured that the horse was shoed and returned. The coin has been given to the villagers in Kinfairlie. The messenger for Newcastle proceeded, only having had his message read. Rhys is bruised but otherwise well enough. Murdoch does not ensure his own gain, only that you are challenged.”

“But Isabella, it is the right of no man to challenge my suzerainty upon my own land, unless he wishes to make war.” There was a hard light in Alexander’s eyes and he spoke with a low heat that frightened Isabella. “Murdoch Seton has found his war. I shall hunt him, no matter how far he might flee. I shall see him imprisoned here at Kinfairlie and I will see him stand in my court and confess to his crimes. I will judge him for his crimes and justice will be served.”

“You will not catch him!”

“He hides in my woods. I shall burn Kinfairlie forest to the ground, if necessary, to see him apprehended.”

“And I shall strike the flint,” Rhys added from behind Isabella.

Isabella looked between the two of them in dismay. From their expressions, she doubted that Murdoch would survive his capture. “But this is unjust! You cannot do as much.”

“I can and I will.” Alexander pointed a finger at her. “And you will have no chance to warn your champion that the wind has turned against him. You will remain within this chamber until this matter is resolved.”

“You cannot imprison me!” Isabella shouted as Alexander walked past her.

Her brother paused and looked her in the eye. “Aye, I can and I will. Indeed, it is my duty to do as much and you cannot halt me. You have but to watch.”

“Alexander!” Isabella cried in frustration, but her brother strode out of the chamber and did not look back. Isabella lunged for the door, but found Rhys in her path, and he was a formidable obstacle. He held her shoulders in his hands and looked into her eyes.

“’Tis for your own good, Isabella,” he said gruffly. “You cannot see the truth of it now, but in month or two, you will thank Alexander for his good care.” Rhys backed Isabella into the middle of the room. “Should you remember the location of the chalice and platter, that detail might well turn the tide in your favor.”

“But I do not have them! They were already gone. The spriggans have them!”

Rhys shook his head. He turned to leave and Isabella leapt after him, too late to keep the door from closing. Isabella grabbed for the latch, but she heard the key turn in the lock.

She was trapped! Isabella raced to the window and leaned over the sill, the drop to the bailey making her dizzy. She would never survive a jump from this window. She pivoted to survey her prison and saw that there was nothing she could use to aid herself, undoubtedly by Alexander’s design. There was only a pallet in the middle of the empty chamber. She heard shouts in the bailey and saw the ostler hurry toward the stables. The horses that had only just returned were being saddled again.

Alexander did not mean to delay over this business.

And there was nothing she could do about it. The only way to save the situation was to tell Murdoch of the Fae’s actions and intercept them before they reached Ravensmuir, but she had no means to do that. Isabella never would have imagined that she would be imprisoned in Kinfairlie keep, but she surely was.

Worse, she would be confined here until Murdoch was dead.

Chapter Twelve

Stewart had never been so vexed with a squire as he was with Gavin. The boy delayed over every detail and lagged so far behind Stewart and Hamish that there could be no doubt that he did as much on purpose. Stewart’s ire rose steadily as they rode west from Kinfairlie forest, but he was determined to not grant the lad the attention he evidently sought.

That resolve lasted until Stewart heard the whistle from Queensferry, when they were yet far from the dock.

“For the love of God,” Stewart declared. “What ails you, lad, that you would be so determined to earn a lashing?”

“’Tis not for the love of God, but for the love of my lord Murdoch,” the boy snapped in reply, his defiance making Stewart yearn to cuff him. “My lord Murdoch is a man unafraid to fight for what he desires, a man unafraid to stand for what he knows to be true, regardless of the risk to himself.” Gavin pointed back toward Kinfairlie, his face contorted with anger. Hamish looked even more like a frightened hare than was his custom. “Yet you, you who speak always of duty and honor, you abandon him when he faces his greatest challenge.”

“I leave him because he commanded as much...”

“To see us safe, no more than that,” Gavin snapped, interrupting Stewart. “But he is the one who has need of our aid. He put our welfare above his own.”

“Murdoch has no need of our assistance to court a lady already smitten with his charms,” he said with care. “This is a delicate matter best left to Murdoch alone. I doubt the lady has such harsh plans for him as you believe and her kin will heed his apology.”

“Nay, I know that there is other peril before him! You are wrong to leave him.”

Gavin’s insolence should have earned him a beating, but his conviction made Stewart wonder what he did not know. “What have you seen?”

“At Seton Manor, I saw nothing,” Gavin retorted. “I saw no honor and no thirst for justice. Two years I have spent in the service of my lord Duncan, sent by my father to squire and learn to be a knight.” The boy sneered. “I have learned nothing from Duncan. He might as well be a woman, or a priest, for all he does is pray.”

Stewart had to avert his gaze from the boy’s fury, for he spoke aright. More than once the old laird had confessed to Stewart—while in his cups—that his sons had been born in the wrong order. Time had only made the truth of their natures more clear.

Gavin jabbed his finger back toward Kinfairlie again. “I have learned more from my lord Murdoch in but a fortnight than in the past two years. He would fight for justice. He would do what needs to be done, whether the task is pleasant or not. He does not merely fall to his knees and beg God to solve his woes.”

Duncan’s nature was better suited to contemplation than to making war, but Stewart could not criticize his laird before these boys. “Justice lies in the hands of God,” he said, knowing it was not a compelling argument even as it crossed his lips but unable to think of another.

“God aids those who aid themselves,” Gavin cried. “So my father has always said. And I can only pray now that God will aid my lord Murdoch, for those dispatched to be of aid to him have chosen to abandon him to his fate.”

Stewart shook a finger at the boy. “You know not of what you speak. I am charged with ensuring your safety and welfare, as well as guaranteeing that you learn what is right...”

“How is it right that Duncan suspected the location of his stolen relic but did nothing to regain it? How is it right that he dispatched his brother to defend his own justice?”

“He is laird...”

“If my lord Murdoch had not returned, what would he have done? He could have sent another to do his bidding. He could have sent you to collect his prize. Instead he prayed for its return and we watched, our bellies growing more empty with every passing day.” Gavin spat in the road, his eyes dark with hostility. “A man does not stand aside and let those beneath his hand suffer.”

Stewart frowned.

“A man shows a care for those pledged to his service,” Gavin retorted. “As my lord Murdoch has done with us.”

“Shows a care?” Stewart echoed, incredulous. “What have you learned in his service? To thieve? To rob the innocent? To terrorize women? That was no good initiative you took this night...”

“I have learned to protect the back of an ally,” Gavin retorted. “To ensure the safety of one dispatched on a perilous mission. To challenge those who would deceive, but not do injury to any. To see to a horse’s welfare, even at one’s own risk. To keep a pledge, no matter the price.”

Stewart felt his lips tighten. “He agreed to our departure, indeed, he insisted upon it.”

“Because he saw the bean-nighe,” Gavin fairly spat the words that sent a pang through Stewart’s heart. “Because he knows he is to die and he would see us safely away.”

A bean-nighe. Stewart was horrified. These apparitions were either Fae or the ghosts of mortal women lost in childbirth, depending upon whom one asked. Either way, they washed the garments of those soon to be dead. “He saw her washing?”

The boy nodded.

“And you did not see her?”

Gavin shook his head.

So, she had been washing Murdoch’s garment. He had seen her as a portent of his own demise. This did, indeed, change all.

“When was this?” Stewart demanded.

“The night after we returned the horse. The night after the laird routed Kinfairlie forest. He saw her, but I saw only his fear.” Gavin held Stewart’s gaze, his own bright with conviction. “He is a man to the end, and I would die in his service rather than return to watch my lord Duncan spend all day upon his knees.”

With that, the boy turned his horse and began to ride back toward Kinfairlie.

“Gavin!” Hamish said in astonishment, looking between Stewart and Gavin. “My lord, he defies you.”

Stewart turned his own horse, his mood sour. “And worse than that, lad, he is right. To Kinfairlie now, with all haste!”

* * *

Isabella heard the horses being mustered and the hunting party ride out. She paced the chamber in rising frustration, hating that she was powerless in this situation.

And that no man would listen to her.

Indeed, it was enough to make her furious. There had to be a solution! She had only to think of it. Isabella paced with greater speed, but could not imagine what she could do.

She jumped when metal struck the stone sill of the window.

She spun to see that it was a grappling hook.

Isabella heard the sounds of someone climbing the stone wall. Friend or foe? She listened at the door, but there was only silence in the corridor beyond. Then she ran across the room as quietly as she could and flattened herself against the wall on one side of the window. The wind was crisp off the sea and when she peered out the window, she could discern the silhouette of a man climbing the wall from below. He kept his head down and was completely in shadow.

She leaned a bit further to get a better look just as he glanced up.

Murdoch grinned recklessly at her, hauling himself hand over hand toward the window with new speed. “Are you always peering out of windows, my Isabella?” he teased.

Isabella was so relieved to see him that her knees weakened. “Have you come to surrender to my brother?”

Murdoch laughed and she was delighted to see that he looked more hale. He reached the sill and pulled himself on to it. Their faces were almost level as he crouched there, the wind tossing his hair, and his eyes glinting. “I do not believe he would listen to any word I uttered to him.”

“He did not listen to me,” Isabella confessed. “Indeed, I have never seen him so angry.”

Murdoch sobered immediately. “Did he strike you?”

“Alexander? No. He shouted. He swore and he confined me to this chamber.” Isabella grimaced. “And he rode out to hunt you down. They mean to burn Kinfairlie forest.”

“Then he will do no more than destroy his own holding.” Murdoch spoke matter-of-factly and stepped into the room. He was fast beside her and she tipped her head back to hold his gaze. His eyes were more blue again, to her relief.

“Is that why you came? To learn his intent?”

“No. I came to apologize to you.” Murdoch’s smile flashed and his arm slid around her waist. “Forgive me, Isabella. I wanted only to see you safe.”

He bent, hesitating when their lips were only a finger’s breadth apart, his gaze searching hers. Then his smile turned secretive as his gaze dropped to her lips.

And finally, when she thought she could not bear to wait any longer, he kissed her. He kissed her so thoroughly that Isabella knew she was not the only one who had thought overmuch about their earlier embraces. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew herself against his chest, liking how he slanted his mouth over hers and deepened his kiss. He pulled away with an effort, holding her tightly even so.

“You saw her,” he said with low heat. “She would destroy you, I know it well, just as I know her power is greatest in the forest.”

Isabella could see one of those blue tendrils on the flesh of his throat and the sight of it, newly appeared, transfixed her. It seemed to grow as she watched. “You risk much in coming here. My brother hunts you...”

Murdoch brushed his lips once across hers to silence her, his own words a mere whisper. “Do you not know yet, my Isabella, that I would risk even more?”

Isabella could not help but smile at him. “I knew you did not truly want me gone.”

“I did want you gone.” Murdoch spoke with heat. “You can have no idea what price she might demand of you.”

Isabella studied him. “The same she claims from you?”

He looked away, troubled in truth. Isabella watched him swallow. “I came also to warn you, Isabella. That you can see her puts you in peril.” He met her gaze again, his own completely serious. “You can never go into Kinfairlie forest again, not so long as she is resident there. And if you confront her or another of the Fae, you must never look into their eyes. It is how they snare mortals, and once you look, you cannot willfully escape their realm.”

“You looked,” Isabella guessed.

“I did not know who she was. I thought her an alluring woman, no more than that.” He grimaced. “I was a fool. I looked and became her captive.” He studied Isabella. “Three years she kept me captive in that realm, three years that felt to me like mere weeks.”

“But you are not in the realm of the Fae now. I could see you even before I drank the potion.”

“Because she released me, but on her own terms.”

Isabella framed his face in her hands. “Tell me.”

Murdoch swallowed. “I said I would surrender any thing to return home again. She never named her price, and I thought she simply gave me my wish.” He laughed without humor. “That is not her nature. There was a price, but she did not confide it in me. I believe that it amused her to watch me realize the truth.”

Isabella felt cold then, for she knew what she had seen. “It is your heart she holds in thrall, is it not?”

Murdoch nodded. “By the new moon I will either be dead or snared among the Fae for all time.” He shuddered. “I suspect it makes little difference.”

Isabella pushed her hands through his hair, wanting only to drive the cold from his skin. She saw that his ears had become pointed slightly, both at the lobes and the top. “She would make you into one of them.”

“Or kill me in the process. I suspect that she fears as much, for she tries to tempt me to surrender willingly to her again.” He lifted Isabella’s hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “And now you know my dark truth, Isabella. I would pledge to you, but I fear I will not ever have the chance.”

Isabella’s heart clenched. “But there must be something we can do! There must be a way to thwart her plan and save you!”

“I do not know it, my Isabella. And I fear the price of any release might be too high.”

“What do you mean?”

Murdoch did not answer her. “I will make my time in this realm count for some thing.” He closed his hand around hers, his gaze boring into her own, and she felt the heat of her skin warm his. His voice dropped to low urgency. “Tell me where the relic is, Isabella. Let me do this one deed for my brother, my father’s memory and my home.”

“I will not,” Isabella said. “Because I will not have you seek it alone. You have need of assistance and you have need of me. We will go together or not at all.”

Murdoch smiled, to her surprise, a warmth dawning in his eyes. “I suspected you would say as much, but the choice had to be your own. I know not how this adventure will end.”

“I know how I would have it end,” Isabella said with heat.

Murdoch kissed her with sweet power, the press of his lips against hers sending a chill through Isabella. He was so cold, but in the past, she had warmed him with her embrace. She caught his face in her hands and kissed him back, pouring all her admiration for him into her touch. He pulled her closer and she felt the heat gather between them.

And in his skin. When they parted, they were both breathless. He was less pale and his eyes sparkled more blue. “Does the cold retreat?” she asked with hope.

“In your presence, it does.” He grinned crookedly at her. “Perhaps you can heal me with your touch.”

He made a jest but Isabella was not so certain that he was mistaken. How could she break the Elphine Queen’s hold over Murdoch? There was no answer in any book, she knew that, but she must be able to reason it out.

“All the more cause to take me with you,” Isabella said and he smiled.

He traced a finger down her cheek. “I can think of a thousand reasons, my Isabella.”

He might have kissed her again, but there was a clatter of hoof beats. Murdoch peered out the window to look toward the stable. He eyed Isabella with consideration. “Is the relic here at Kinfairlie?”

Isabella shook her head.

“But you know its location?”

“I know the villain’s destination.”

Murdoch considered her for a moment. Then he leapt to the sill with an athletic grace Isabella admired. He offered his hand to her and smiled. “Time to go, my lady.”

“Where are Stewart and the boys?”

“I bade them ride for home.”

“You wanted them to be safe.”

“All comes to fruition, Isabella. I will take no innocents into this battle.” Murdoch’s gaze locked upon hers as if he would will her to understand her choice.

Isabella put her hand in his before she realized his meaning. If she went with Murdoch, no matter what happened between them, it would be assumed that she had been intimate with him and that her virginity was lost. Indeed, it seemed that Alexander had made that conclusion already.

If she went with Murdoch, and he did not return, she might not be able to wed.

If she went with Murdoch, and he did return with her, her choice might compel Alexander to at least hear Murdoch’s offer for her hand.

Isabella did not have to consider the repercussions more than that. She did not want to wed any man other than Murdoch and she believed that would never change. Without him, she would content herself with the healing arts.

But if she went and he survived—due to her aid or not—and if he still wished to court her, she would be glad to wed him. Isabella would go, and she would do what she could to ensure that Murdoch survived.

“I must get my cloak,” she said and saw the flash of his triumphant smile before she turned to fetch it.

“Will they return for you? Look for you?”

Isabella thought about this for a moment. “We had the evening meal already. The brazier is lit for the night. I shall extinguish the lantern and they may think me asleep.” She did as much while Murdoch rolled the blankets on the pallet into a cylinder. It did not really look like a person, but perhaps in darkness, it would give them a few moments’ undiscovered.

He leapt to the window sill once more, remaining utterly still while he surveyed the bailey below. With startling speed, he seized the rope, spun and flung himself out the window. He turned on the rope to land with his feet braced against the wall. He hung there and gave Isabella a challenging smile. “By yourself or with me?”

“I have never done this. I might fall and reveal us both.” Isabella wished the truth were otherwise. “Will I be too heavy for you?”

Murdoch shook his head, looking more reckless than ever. His expression made Isabella’s heart skip. “Leave my right arm unencumbered,” he instructed as she stepped on to the sill. She donned her own gloves and seized the rope, mimicking his gesture. She nearly shouted, it was such a shock to swing out the window, but she bit back her cry.

And she landed against Murdoch’s chest with a thump, her back to him.

“Well done,” he murmured, his lips against her ear. He instructed her how to move her hands so that she held some of her weight herself, then warned her that he was about to move. “We descend in spurts,” he said. “The height of a man or slightly more each time. When I tell you, loosen your grip slightly on the rope. You will not fall.”

“Not unless you fall as well.”

He chuckled. “There is that. If nothing else, I will break your fall.”

His confidence was infectious and Isabella nodded understanding.

Murdoch kissed the back of her neck and she closed his eyes at his touch.

“And away,” he said softly.

They dropped a good ten feet, the rope slipping through his gloved hands as Isabella watched in dismay. She feared that they would fall, that she would land atop him in the bailey and that he would break a bone.

To her relief, Murdoch managed to grip the rope tightly before she panicked. When he had steadied them once more, she heard him take a deep breath.

“I have always done this alone before,” he murmured by way of apology. “But it is not so different.” He did not linger. “Away again.”

They descended the rest of the way in smaller increments, just as he had said. He tugged at the rope and grappling hook once they were on the ground, obviously disappointed that he would have to leave it.

“Nothing for it,” he murmured, then winked and seized her hand. They ran for the far side of the stables.

Isabella heard voices as they drew close to the last corner of the low building and she halted Murdoch with a hand on his arm. They leaned back against the stable, hidden by the shadows and Murdoch peered around the corner. Men were talking, making a jest, and she could hear the jingle of a horse’s trap.

Murdoch’s lips tightened when he leaned back against the wall. Isabella knew he was furious and wondered what he had seen. He touched a finger to his lips, demanding silence, then pointed to the corner.

Isabella leaned past him to look and nearly gasped in dismay. The ostler, Owen, was there, with two of his boys. They led Murdoch’s horse by the reins toward Kinfairlie’s stalls.

“The renegade must be within Kinfairlie’s bounds,” Owen said. “And left his horse tethered there for a quick escape. He shall not evade our laird on this night.” He reached up and stroked the white stallion’s nose. “And all the better for this one, for he shall be safe and well fed. Perhaps better fed than he has been of late.” He clicked his tongue to the horse, sent one of the boys to the hall to deliver the news to Alexander upon his return, and took the steed into Kinfairlie’s stables.

Isabella leaned back beside Murdoch, and could fairly hear him thinking.

“How many?” he mouthed, gesturing to the stables behind them.

Isabella grimaced. She held up ten fingers, then another ten, then shrugged.

Murdoch scowled, clearly unhappy to be without his horse.

Isabella shook her head. She pointed toward Ravensmuir, across the untended fields and gorse that lay between the two keeps on this side. She mocked riding a horse and shook her head. She let her fingers walk and nodded.

“Ravensmuir?” he mouthed in obvious surprise at their destination.

Isabella nodded firmly.

Murdoch pointed at the shadowed hulk of the ruined keep in the distance as if he could not believe what she said. Ravensmuir was silhouetted against the brightness of the sea.

Isabella nodded.

Murdoch stared into the shadowed fields, clearly thinking. She did not doubt that he saw the gullies that crossed the space and the rocks that nestled in the ground, for the moon was full and illuminated the ground as brightly as the midday sun. There were far more rocks than the big ones that were readily visible, thousands of small rocks that could break a horse’s leg. They would arrive more quickly if they ran.

He mimicked riding, then gestured to the land they could see. He drew a line with his fingertip and shrugged.

Isabella understood. Where was the road?

She pointed back to Kinfairlie’s gates behind them, then past the forest, drawing a wide arc in the air that ultimately led to Ravensmuir from the far side of the forest.

Murdoch took a deep breath, cast one last glance back as Zephyr nickered in the stable, then tightened his grip on Isabella’s hand. She knew in that instant that he had agreed with her advice.

He did not walk toward Ravensmuir, though.

Murdoch ran.

* * *

Murdoch and Isabella fled on foot, racing north from Kinfairlie’s keep. In the distance and to their right was the glimmer of the ocean, turned silver by the moon’s light. Far ahead was the shadow of Ravensmuir’s ruins, abandoned and still. There was gorse underfoot and rocks, for this land had not been tilled in decades. Kinfairlie’s forest and its village fell far behind them.

Murdoch could not dismiss his sense that trouble was brewing. All had gone well enough, but he feared he had missed some key detail.

He had been angry, of course, to lose his horse, and had initially wished they had Zephyr, for the stallion would have made light of both the distance and the additional weight of Isabella. When Murdoch saw the truth of the rough terrain, he was glad the horse would not risk injury and he would not be tempted to encourage speed on such ground. He felt certain that the destrier would be well tended at Kinfairlie. He was not certain he would be able to retrieve the horse as his own, but that was another issue for another day. Zephyr’s welfare was assured and he would satisfy himself with that.

Stewart and the boys would be safely on the far side of Kinfairlie forest by this time, he was certain, perhaps even at Queensferry. By the time the laird’s party reached the woods, they would be far away—and safe. The welfare of those from his brother’s household who had been dispatched with him was guaranteed as well.

It was slow walking through the stony fields in darkness, the ancient furrows always in the wrong direction and deeply pitted with gullies. Kinfairlie’s tower had seemed ominous and all too close. Murdoch had feared the laird would ride after his sister, that he would cut across the fields readily, and that their quest would come to an end too soon.

The relics would be lost. His brother would not see his property returned. Murdoch would be lost, and for no gain. In the silence they felt compelled to keep, it was all too easy to fabricate dire endings to his tale.

Had Isabella been wrong about the destination of the thief? Murdoch could discern no sign that any other soul had passed this way.

In decades.

Who was the thief? What manner of fool would choose this direction? Who would select crumbled Ravensmuir as his destination? The thief would not be pursued, but he also might not survive long within those collapsing walls. Murdoch trusted Isabella, but he wondered whether she had been deceived.

For there was no denying that he had a potent sense of foreboding. The hair prickled on the back of his neck and he stifled the urge to spend the night safely hidden out of sight. Murdoch felt as if a tide were rising behind him, gathering deadly force.

When orange light flared in the distance far to their left, he knew the source of that threat.

* * *

Two selfless deeds.

Finvarra was well-pleased with Murdoch Seton. Rare was a man whose own nature would driven him to take a risk for another. That Murdoch did as much fully cognizant of the stakes only increased Finvarra’s estimation. The man had seen to the welfare of a horse, at no small risk to himself, and had also ensured that his squire was defended on that quest into Kinfairlie village.

Finvarra was also impressed that Murdoch could appreciate a fine horse, even if it was not his own. He considered the chess board deep in Kinfairlie’s forest, well aware that the Elphine Queen’s mood turned petulant, and sipped golden wine from a chalice.

He was glad he had accepted her invitation. He had not anticipated the beauty of Elizabeth, past, present and future, and a glimpse only fed his appetite for the future. He glanced toward his unhappy wife, sipped his wine, and considered the merit of lingering at Kinfairlie a while.

He was pondering how best to aid Murdoch Seton in achieving his third selfless deed—even questioning whether his assistance was necessary—when the knights rode into Kinfairlie forest with blazing torches.

When they lit Murdoch’s abandoned camp ablaze, the Elphine Queen leapt to her feet in outrage. “How dare they damage my forest?” she cried, though the mortal knights could not hear her. “Does he imagine he can destroy me so readily as this?” She raged into the sky like a venomous cloud and Finvarra knew he had to act quickly to protect Murdoch from her wrath.

A glamour first, and then a refuge. He turned away from Una and conjured with all his might.

Which was considerable.

* * *

Isabella gasped and stopped to stare at the flames in the forest. Her hand rose to her mouth, her expression horrified. “He truly does it,” she whispered. She looked at Murdoch in consternation. “Alexander burns Kinfairlie forest. He threatened as much. He said he would rout you, but I did not think he would do it.”

Murdoch stared at this evidence of the laird’s anger.

The orange flames seemed ferociously bright against the darkness of the night. Murdoch could fairly hear the crackle of the fire and he could see the smoke rising into the starry sky. The fire did not spread, though, and he guessed that Alexander had targeted his own abandoned camp site. The laird would make a point, not destroy the value of his holding.

Murdoch was not welcome.

“It will not burn,” he told Isabella. “There is too much snow on the ground, particularly in the forest. All would be damp and smolder.”

“I hope so. I could not bear to see it destroyed.”

“Look,” he said to reassure her, pointing. “Already it begins to smolder.” Isabella heaved a sigh of relief and leaned against him, but there was to be little reprieve.

For in that moment, he heard the scream. It was an unholy cry of fury, one that grew in volume until he thought his ears might bleed. At the same time, a deep shadow rose from the forest like a great plume of dark cloud. It roiled against the sky, then tumbled toward the ground. The black cloud spread with lightning speed, like a wall of soot racing across the land. As that cloud drew close to them, a woman’s face became clear at its fore.

A woman with flowing black hair and eyes as dark as night, her teeth bared as she roared with fury.

“She hunts you!” Isabella whispered in horror. “She blames you!”

Murdoch did not know why and he did not have time to consider the question. He seized Isabella’s hand and pivoted, intent upon fleeing to Ravensmuir. Isabella needed no urging to join him. Their boots pounded across the fields, their breath ragged, their hands clutched together.

But when the cold dark cloud passed over them, its force nearly took them to their knees. Murdoch flung Isabella beneath him and sheltered her with his body as the tide passed. He winced as a layer of ice formed over his back, that unholy cry echoing in his ears.

The Elphine Queen did not see them, at least not yet, for they survived the onslaught. Murdoch felt both blessed beyond belief. Though he could not explain their good fortune, he would accept it. When he lifted his head, the fields were touched with ice and the air was so cold that he feared to take a breath. He winced, certain the blue marks on his body were growing with untold vigor, and doubted he could fully feel his toes.

“She will not claim you,” Isabella insisted, kissing him with ferocity. Her heat flooded into his body, invigorating him once more, and Murdoch regretted the moment she lifted his lips from his.

“We must find shelter,” he said, urging her to her feet. He stumbled but Isabella urged him onward, her faith giving him the power to run again.

Ravensmuir still appeared to be a thousand miles away and there was no scrap of shelter between them and the ruined keep. Though it seemed their fate was hopeless, Murdoch could not surrender so readily as that.

Onward, for so long as they could manage it.

* * *

Isabella was both exhausted and terrified. She had never run as far as Ravensmuir and she was not certain she could make it, not at the pace Murdoch set. And yet, she feared to move any more slowly. She kept glancing back, haunted that the Elphine Queen hunted Murdoch on this night.

What would happen if she caught them? Little good, Isabella was certain.

And what if they did make distant Ravensmuir? Did they dare enter the crumbled keep without a light? Did they dare to strike a flint?

Where were Darg and the spriggans who had said they would take the relics to Ravensmuir? Isabella had been certain she would have caught a glimpse of them by now, but there was no sign of the spriggans or the relics. Had they deceived her? Was she leading Murdoch to his doom?

Neither of them had the breath to talk. They simply ran.

Murdoch offered his hand to help Isabella over a low wall of field stones that marked the boundary between Kinfairlie’s fields and those of Ravensmuir. Isabella held fast to his cold fingers as they continued, alternatively blowing on them and rubbing them. She could give him heat, she realized, but it never lasted. It was like kindling a fire with damp fuel. It could be coaxed to sputter and burn but not for the duration—only for so long as she fixed all of her attention upon the task.

Isabella could hear the sea more clearly as they drew closer to Ravensmuir. The stars and the moon were obscured now, which both aided them and hampered them. They were less likely to be seen but also could not see their way as readily. The ground, at least, had fewer stones and no furrows. This part of Ravensmuir’s land had never been tilled. Isabella thought they made better progress.

Even in ruin, Ravensmuir was imposing.

She glanced back to find another black cloud mustering behind them. It obliterated the stars behind and above Kinfairlie. Murdoch’s steps faltered beside her and Isabella assumed he thought that the Elphine Queen was coming again. She intended to encourage him, but the words died on her lips.

Murdoch’s face had turned as pale as snow. His eyes had gone dark. No longer the brilliant blue they once had been, they seemed to be filled with inky shadows.

And he was cold, colder than the grave.

The rain came slanting down as she stared at him, driving through her cloak with icy cold fingers.

“Do you see them?” Murdoch whispered, as unlike his usual confident self as a man might be. “Do you see the dead come to gather me?”

“No!” Isabella said with force. “Murdoch, you cannot die!” Even as she spoke, she looked around them for a solution. It was too far to Ravensmuir and whatever shelter it might offer. It could take them two more hours to reach that ruin, and Murdoch needed warmth and shelter immediately.

That was when she saw the cottage. Isabella could not imagine how she had overlooked it before. It might not have been there at all, then suddenly was conjured from the air because of her desire.

A thin tendril of smoke rose from its roof, swept away by that wind as soon as it cleared the thatch. The door was open, spilling a welcome golden light into the night. Perhaps the door had been closed. Perhaps that had been why she had overlooked it. It was built low and snug to the ground, the entire cottage nestled into a hollow.

Isabella decided its owner wished for his abode to be overlooked.

She might have hesitated to trouble one so intent upon ensuring his solitude, but the figure of a man appeared in the doorway. He beckoned to her, and as Murdoch began to shudder, Isabella knew she had no choice but to accept the invitation.

She pulled Murdoch to the low door and was startled to find the sound of music emanating from the tiny cottage. The man on the threshold wore a brown hooded cape of roughly spun cloth. His beard was long and dark, and his eyes were fathomless pools. Isabella stifled a shiver and looked past his shoulder, wanting to avoid his intense gaze. Murdoch murmured something that made no sense to her and struggled against her as if he would remain in the storm.

The man touched Murdoch’s brow with his fingertips. Murdoch shuddered and stilled, his head hanging.

“You are a healer?” Isabella asked, awed by the power of his touch.

The man smiled. “Of a kind. Please, take your shelter here.”

Isabella halted on the threshold, struck by a sense that all was not right. There was no one in the cabin, although the music played ceaselessly. At her confusion, the man drew back and waved a hand.

The music stopped. There was only the welcome crackle of the fire in the grate and the heat it generated. Still, she felt an uneasy sense that things were not what they seemed.

Or was she simply too tired?

“I must leave on this night,” the man said, his voice so deep and rich that it seemed it could not emanate truly from him. “I beg you to make use of the fire and my humble abode.”

Before Isabella could thank him for such kindness, he wrapped his cloak around himself and stepped past them into the night. The wind swirled around him, making his cloak flutter.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the night and the storm.

Murdoch released a shaking breath. With his cold fingers, he fumbled at his belt, even as he fell to his knees. Isabella thought he wanted his sword, although she could not imagine why. She made to step across the threshold and tug him inside by force.

“No!” Murdoch said with force, his eyes flashing, and flung her on to the ground beside him. Before Isabella could protest, he pulled a dagger from his belt, one with an elaborate design on its silver hilt. He jammed the blade into the dirt of the threshold, showing a disregard for the weapon that astonished Isabella.

She was more astonished when the cottage seemed to waver slightly, like a reflection in a pond.

“Now, you can enter,” Murdoch whispered, sounding as if he had crawled a hundred miles.

“Should we?”

“We have little choice. At least we will be able to leave.”

Murdoch sagged then, as if this effort had spent him completely. Isabella put her arm around him and supported his weight as she got him out of the storm. She urged him toward the fire and he collapsed, boneless with exhaustion.

Or something else.

Isabella closed the door behind them, not securing it in case the man returned. She cast off her own cold and wet cloak, then bent to remove Murdoch’s cloak. It was heavy with water and the hem crusted with ice.

“He was one of them.” Murdoch spoke so quietly that Isabella could barely hear the words. “He would trap us in his turn.” So, the man was Fae. Isabella thought of his fathomless eyes and was glad she had not looked more closely. Murdoch lifted a hand and his eyes opened slightly, revealing a glimmer of blue. He smiled a little and touched her cheek. “Not you, too. Not my Isabella.”

“They will not claim either of us,” Isabella vowed, although she was not at all certain that was possible. It was her hope, and perhaps that was sufficient.

Murdoch’s eyes closed then and he breathed heavily. He lay on his back before the fire, looking for all the world as if he had left this realm. Isabella leaned close and listened, the faint sound of his breath enough to encourage her.

She had to get him dry and warm.

Isabella dragged the pallet from the far side of the cottage in front of the fire, and rolled Murdoch on to it. He moved limply and she was struck that his skin had become even colder. His hair was thoroughly wet and clung to his head, icicles caught in its length. She used the bottom of her skirt to rub his hair dry and get most of the moisture out of it, leaving him tousled and alluring. The pallor had faded, too, leaving him looking more hale again.

She reached out a fingertip and traced the line of his mouth, remembering the surety of his kiss.

She could not let him die.

But still, Isabella had never seen a man naked, and she certainly had never removed the garb of a man she found so dangerously attractive. His garments were soaked, though, and his survival could rely upon warmth.

Isabella took a deep breath, then began to undress Murdoch.

Chapter Thirteen

Murdoch’s boots had pools of water in the soles and she poured them out, setting them before the fire to dry. The leather would be stiff in the morning, but there was little she could do about that. Their cloaks were already stretched out to dry.

She paused and surveyed him again, reminding herself that this was no time for maidenly shyness.

Isabella tugged off Murdoch’s gloves, pausing to study the whorling lines curling around his hand. She untied the lace at the cuff of his chemise and pushed up the sleeve, catching her breath at the extent of the blue mark. It continued, swirling around his forearm and past the elbow. The tendril of blue she had seen at Kinfairlie was the end of this design, where it had begun to wind around his throat. A quick check revealed that his right arm was nearly the same, the marks only slightly less extensive.

She unfastened his belt, expecting him to stir when she removed his purse and scabbard, but he did not. She grasped the hem of his tabard and pulled it up over his chest, noting that it was far less clean than once it had been.

She sniffed it and smelled blood. What blood? Was he this pale because he had been injured? Did he yet bleed? The possibility filled her with purpose. Isabella put the tabard to one side, intending to wash it once she had found and tended his wound. She loosened the tie of his chemise at the neck.

The sight of his bare throat made her resolve flutter. She recalled the feel of his embrace, and reminded herself to act. Her mouth dry at the boldness of what she did, Isabella tugged his shirt up from the waist and hauled it over her head.

Then she looked, telling herself she was seeking a wound. Murdoch lay half-naked before her and the strength of his body was beautiful. He was all muscled power, lean and strong. He did not have a single scar, let alone a bleeding wound—she even rolled him over to check.

The lack of a wound was not what astonished Isabella.

It was not even Murdoch’s nudity.

It was extent of the winding blue lines that covered not just his arms, but his shoulders and his torso. It looked for all the world like a tracery of dark vines that encased his body.

And his skin was pale beneath the marks. Where they had not marred his skin as yet, the flesh looked tanned and healthy, but beneath their tracery, it was grey and pale. She could not evade the sense that the lines grew like a bramble or a thicket, one converging upon his chest.

Surrounding and barricading his heart.

Isabella caressed his chest tentatively, wondering whether the marks hurt, her fingertip following one of those lines. Murdoch suddenly caught his breath. His eyes flew open and his gaze locked with hers. She laid her hand flat on his chest, her palm over the steady beat of his heart, and felt the heat grow there.

“Isabella,” he whispered, his voice husky. There was awe in his eyes and they became more blue as she watched. Color touched his face, driving out the pale hue even behind the blue lines. Isabella dared to hope that she truly could heal him of this malady.

What would she have to give to see him completely warmed? Isabella stared into his eyes and thought she knew.

And she was prepared to give it.

When Murdoch reached for her, Isabella could not have denied him to save her very soul.

* * *

Isabella might have been an angel of mercy, come to save him.

Murdoch had been surrounded by a fog filled with whispering shadows of ghosts and Fae. They had closed around him after the dark cloud’s assault, as he and Isabella had struggled to reach safety. He had been both relieved and terrified by the sight of the cottage, knowing they needed refuge but fearing the one who offered it—and what the price might be. He had already been weakened, the ice gathering in his veins as he felt himself fade.

At least he had had the power to drive the blade into the threshold. If they survived, they would be able to leave.

If they did not consume any morsel, they would be able to leave.

He had to warn Isabella, but the fog had closed around him as soon as he had entered the cottage. He feared it would only clear when he was in the Elphine Queen’s captivity. Murdoch was cold, colder than he might have believed possible, and he was certain that his every exhaled breath cast snow into the air.

He jumped at what he thought was that Fae queen’s touch on his bare skin, but the warmth that spread from that light caress told him otherwise.

Isabella.

Murdoch opened his eyes to find his stalwart maiden leaning over him, concern in her expression. She was fine and she was fearless. Tendrils of her hair hung damply around her face, the golden light cast by the fire gilding her to a vision of perfection. Her lips parted in surprise and her eyes widened that he awakened.

When she smiled with relief, Murdoch could not resist her. He reached for her, sliding his hands into her hair, drawing her closer. She smiled more broadly and leaned against him, claiming his lips with a kiss that sent heat surging through him.

Murdoch caught her closer and drank of her kiss, loving how she fell against him in a tumble of softness. She framed his face with her hands, capturing him between the heat of her palms, her lips and tongue kindling that fire within him to a blaze. Murdoch felt warmth return to his body, and heard the thunder of his own pulse in his ears.

Isabella gave him new life. He enfolded her in his embrace and rolled her to her back, surveying her when their kiss broke. She trailed one hand down his cheek and her eyes shone with a welcome that fed his desire yet more.

She was so vital that he had to defend her. “You must not let any morsel pass your lips in this place,” Murdoch advised her. “That, too, will see you captive.”

“Was that what you did?”

“I looked into her eyes. I saw promises there that beguiled me.” Murdoch forced a smile. “They were all lies, Isabella, for I was trapped against my will..” They were speaking in whispers, as if they might be overheard, the sound of their voices hidden by the crackle of the fire on the hearth. Indeed, Murdoch was not certain of their solitude. He shuddered at the recollection of his captivity, then met her gaze. “I would sooner die than be compelled to return.”

Her green eyes glinted with the determination he so admired. “I would sooner you survive,” she said with resolve, then pulled him closer for another kiss. Her kiss seared him and awakened him, making him feel powerful once again. He feared that she could not heal him totally, but even if this was merely a reprieve, it was welcome. He kissed her deeply, savoring her responsiveness, glad to find the sense of doom slipping from his thoughts. When he held Isabella and drank of her passion, he could believe in victory over the Elphine Queen.

When he lifted his head, they both were breathing quickly. The lady was flushed and Murdoch smiled at her.

“Your color returns,” she said with satisfaction. “And your eyes are not so filled with shadows as they were.” She slid her hands around his neck, drawing him closer. “Come and kiss me again. It seems the deed is good for what ails you.”

But Murdoch braced his hands on either side of her shoulders, resisting the temptation she offered. “Know, my Isabella, that if we touch again, I will not be able to stop our embrace. I fear you will no longer be a maiden when we part.”

His lady smiled. “Know, Murdoch, that it will be assumed I surrendered my all to you this night. In fact, I think Alexander already believes you have bedded me.” Murdoch might have protested this injustice but Isabella touched a fingertip to his lips. “If I am to be condemned, it will be for a deed I have done, not one I have only yearned to do.”

Her resolve made everything within him tighten. Still, he would ensure that she knew the price she might pay. “I would not have you be condemned at all.”

“Then you must survive the new moon, and you must wed me. That alone will ensure as much.” She spoke lightly, but Murdoch’s desire for that end was sobering.

He might have pulled away then, fearing as he did that it was impossible to fulfill that goal. “I will not pledge what might not be mine to offer,” he said gruffly, reluctant even so to leave the haven of her embrace.

But Isabella held fast. “Murdoch! I believe that the deed we both yearn to do this night might well give you that chance. It might turn the tide.”

“It might not.”

“I would take the risk, for the potential reward is well worth it.” She smiled again. “I knew a man who believed in the merit of a well-considered risk.”

Murdoch smiled back at her. “And you do not even know what pleasure this deed might offer.”

“It does not matter.”

She spoke with such conviction that Murdoch had to tease her. “So, you see this as an act of mercy? A treatment offered by a healer?”

Isabella’s tone turned more fierce. “I love you, Murdoch. I will never regret what we do this night, no matter what happens on the morrow. This is my gift to you, and I only pray that it will make the difference.”

Murdoch was awed and he was humbled. His lady was all he might have hoped to gain in a wife and partner, and he would not insult her by spurning the gift she offered.

For he loved Isabella with a fervor unexpected. He would take the chance that this deed might give him the chance to wed her with honor.

He bent and captured his lady’s lips with his own, resolving to go slowly and make this a night to remember. The least he could do was ensure her pleasure on this night of nights—indeed, a sweet memory might be all Isabella possessed of him in the end.

It was one offering Murdoch Seton knew he could make to his lady fair.

* * *

Isabella knew the moment Murdoch was persuaded. That mischievous glint lit his eyes again, though it was but a glimmer of what it had been before. And she tasted his intent in his kiss. He was more leisurely than he had been, yet she knew he did not hold himself back. He tasted her and cajoled her, savoring her kiss with a thoroughness that left her breathless.

When he raised his head and smiled down at her, Isabella knew she would remember this night for the rest of her life.

And this knight as well.

“Your gift is a generous one, my Isabella,” Murdoch murmured, his voice sending shivers of anticipation through her. “Do not imagine that I fail to realize its import.” He laid a fingertip across her lips when she might have spoken. “It seems only fair that I give some hint of the pleasure that is possible in this deed.”

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, her anticipation rising.

Murdoch smiled. “Nothing. You have only to enjoy.” He leaned over her and kissed her again, one arm sliding beneath her shoulders and the other hand loosing her braid. His fingers combed through her hair as he freed it, his touch making Isabella shiver with delight. She liked the sense of being sheltered in his embrace, trapped between him and the pallet, his strength and the hearth. She felt safe with Murdoch.

It was warm in the cottage, the fire crackling on the hearth and its light turning the small space into a cozy haven. Isabella could hear the roar of a furious wind outside the cottage, but it was so faint that the walls might have been thick stone. There was not a whistle through the cracks, not a draft or a chill. Even the smoke hole in the ceiling seemed to be buffered against that wind and not a drop of rain came through that opening either.

There was just the steady crackle of the fire, its radiant heat and Murdoch’s enchanting touch.

His kiss was potent, leisurely and seductive. Isabella felt that newly familiar urgency building beneath her skin—the one that Murdoch alone seemed to kindle—and that dampness between her thighs. Her pulse skipped and she yearned for the same pleasure he had given her in the salt fens.

And though he warned her to simply enjoy, Isabella could do no such thing. She had to give to him as he did to her. Isabella slid her hands into Murdoch’s dark hair and mimicked what he did. Their kiss rapidly became more passionate, the play between them sending heat surging through her veins.

She recognized that she had some power in this when Murdoch caught his breath and broke their kiss. He exhaled slowly, as if fighting for control.

“It is best taken slowly,” he whispered, his eyes glinting. “As slowly as it can be managed.”

“Why?”

His smile flashed. “You will see.” He winked. “Trust me.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And do not tease me overmuch.”

Isabella smiled. “I shall tease you as much as you tease me.”

Murdoch laughed, the sound more reassuring to her than any other could be. He coaxed her to her feet and turned her before him as if she were a marvel. His fingertips trailed across her cheek and her throat, as lightly as a feather, and he studied her so avidly that Isabella blushed. He smiled crookedly, then unfastened the lace at the neck of her chemise with deliberation, slowly revealing her skin to his gaze. His eyes shone with an anticipation that echoed Isabella’s own. In a way, she wanted him to hurry, but in another, she already saw the effect of his leisurely pace.

It built her anticipation. She thought of potions she had made, how some herbs had to be simmered for hours in order to release their full potency and reasoned that love play was much the same. The release would be greater if they ensured that passion rose slowly.

And doing as much would give Murdoch a greater chance to heal. Isabella could already see how his state improved. She did not understand it fully, but in giving herself to him, in giving of herself to him, the Elphine Queen’s power over him was diminished.

She studied him in the light of the fire, noting the breadth of his shoulders and the muscled strength of his body. She liked that he was taller than her, that he was clearly so powerful yet he touched her with gentleness. She liked the humor that glinted in his eyes and as ever she found his confidence alluring. He moved with grace, at ease with his body. Isabella sensed that it was like a weapon to him, a tool he could use more effectively in understanding its strengths and limitations.

Murdoch was not truly reckless. He was confident and he calculated the strategic merit of risk. She tried not to give undue attention to the tracery of blue lines on his skin, but they were a potent reminder of the peril he faced. His calculations of risk had been correct, except when he had been assaulted by the Fae queen.

The Elphine Queen was not to be underestimated. She could steal all of this from Isabella.

But Isabella was not going to surrender Murdoch without a fight. Even now, the blue marks seemed more pale. His eyes were closer to the sapphire blue they had been when she had first met him, and that unruly twinkle lurked within them again.

Isabella was not without power in this matter.

And she would use it to win the heart of the knight she desired for her own.

As she realized this, Murdoch unfastened the laces on either side of her kirtle, his hair falling over his brow in an unruly tumble as he worked them free of the eyelets. Isabella could not resist the urge to touch him, not when he stood so close to her and her nostrils were filled with the scent of his flesh.

She ran her hand over his arms and shoulders, stretching to touch her lips to his as she felt his corded strength. He smiled and held her gaze as he pulled each lace free of the eyelets. When the laces were discarded, he slid his hands beneath the damp wool, as he had once before, but this time, he urged the weight of the garment over her head. He left Isabella standing before the fire in her chemise and hung the kirtle on the rafters to dry, spreading it with care.

When he turned his back to her, Isabella knew she would surprise him. She tugged her white chemise over her head and discarded it, spinning to find Murdoch staring at her with wonder. She smiled at him, unashamed to face him in her stockings alone.

“You are bold, my Isabella,” he whispered.

“I would not have you forget our intent,” she teased and he laughed again.

“There is no chance of that, my Isabella.” Murdoch stepped closer, his smile fading when he stood before her. He raised a hand to her cheek. “You look like a goddess wrought of copper and gold,” he whispered.

Isabella shook her head. “I am merely a maiden of flesh and blood.” She smiled. “One with desire in her veins and no knowledge of what to do with it.”

Murdoch’s nostrils flared, then he knelt before her. He lifted her foot, setting it upon his thigh, then ran his fingertips over the length of her legs. His light touch both tickled and aroused her, making her aware of her body in a new way. When he bent to kiss the soft flesh behind her knee, Isabella caught her breath in surprise. She felt the prickle of his whiskers and an unruly tingle that seemed to awaken her body to his touch.

Murdoch locked one hand around her ankle, then bent to unfasten her garter with his teeth. The feel of his breath upon her skin made Isabella shiver and he chuckled. Isabella grasped his shoulders to ensure that she did not lose her balance. He slid the stocking down with gentle fingertips, following its course with a trail of kisses. He kissed every increment of her skin as it was revealed, leaving her shivering with desire.

When he did the same to the other stocking, Isabella leaned back her head and closed her eyes. She knew she dug her fingers into his shoulders but Murdoch did not seem to mind. He persisted in his relentless caress, until her entire body seemed to hum. His tongue flicked against the side of her ankle, both tickling and arousing her. His hands slid over her calves, his kisses fluttered across her skin like a thousand butterflies. She loved the feel of his hands sliding up her legs and over her thighs and caught her breath when he gripped her buttocks in his hands.

“Part your legs,” he commanded quietly. Isabella looked down to find him kneeling before her, his expression filled with mischief. His eyes shone, a sight so entrancing that Isabella could not look away. “One step either way will do it,” he continued softly. “Then lean your knees on my shoulders.” Murdoch smiled. “Fear not, my lady. I will not let you fall.”

Isabella did not understand, but she trusted him. No sooner had she taken that step than Murdoch pressed a kiss to the tangle of hair at the junction of her thighs. Isabella inhaled sharply, but he tugged her closer. She was on the tips of her toes, her knees braced against his shoulders and her legs parted. As he had vowed, he held her captive in that pose, his forearms against her thighs and her weight supported against his shoulders. She had one glimpse of his satisfaction, then gasped when his mouth closed over her wet heat.

Oh! Isabella had never anticipated such an intimacy. She caught her breath, then shuddered to her very toes as his tongue moved against her hidden pearl. He spread his hands, gripping her buttocks securely, and slid his tongue along the slickness of her. It was more gentle than his fingertips had been, more seductive and alluring.

A new heat spread through Isabella from that tender point, surging along her veins and feeding her desire. She felt warm. She felt that her body was afire, that some pleasure simmered deep within her belly. She had never felt such a keen awareness of her body—or been so intent upon the touch of another.

And Murdoch knew as much. He breathed against her. He laved her. He suckled her and Isabella could only hold on. She feared she would lose her balance and fall, but remembered Murdoch’s promise. Indeed, she was secure in his grip, braced in the position he had chosen. She could see that the muscles in his shoulders and arms were taut, holding her captive to his embrace.

She smiled at the dark tangle of his hair, the leisure of his caress, as if he would make this moment stretch through all eternity. Each time the passion rose high within her, so high that she thought she would feel that release again, he paused then moved more gently again. He drove her higher with each assault, until she was aching with desire and yearning for more.

When she thought she could bear his torment no longer, his tongue touched her secret heat with a new insistence that made her moan aloud. She wanted to know all that was possible, and she trusted Murdoch on this path. Isabella parted her legs more widely, inviting his touch, and cast her head back, surrendering to his lesson.

She stretched her hands toward the ceiling and arched her back, tipping her head back and closing her eyes in wanton surrender. She welcomed all he would give her, and knew only that she would reciprocate in kind. The tide rose hot and furious within her, driven onward by Murdoch’s tongue and Isabella bucked her hips to coax him further. This time he did not halt.

She had one chance to save Murdoch, and Isabella would not compromise. She would willingly surrender her all.

* * *

Isabella was more enticing than he could have imagined. It was her trust as much as her beauty that made Murdoch determined to woo her and to win her. She was strong and lithe in his grasp, and so responsive that he feared he could not last.

When she leaned back, trusting him to hold her securely, he thought he might explode. He stole an upward glance and caught his breath at the sight of her breasts, those nipples rosy and taut, those breasts so ripe and creamy. Her hair cascaded down her back, snaring the firelight and gleaming like hammered copper. She was perfection. She moaned and he wanted to bury himself within her, claiming her this night for all time.

But slowly. He would take it slowly.

Even if the deed killed him.

Isabella was wet and hot, the scent and taste of her arousal driving him to distraction. He was throbbing and hard himself, his erection straining against the laces on his chausses. Every move she made simply enflamed him further. He felt her shiver in delight. He heard her catch her breath. He felt the skip of her pulse and he sensed the quiver that began deep within her as he steadily coaxed her response. She trembled more vehemently, her flesh heating even beneath his hands. She became wetter and hotter, and still he would see her more so. He ate of her fruit and drank of her juices and knew there was no better feast in the world.

He heard the low moan begin in Isabella’s throat and felt her clitoris become harder. He let his tongue move more vehemently against her, liking that Isabella did not flinch from the pleasure he would give her. He alternated gentleness with demand, urging her to greater heights. When her pulse leapt and her hips began to buck of their own accord, he knew she was close to finding her release.

When her fingers dug deeply into his shoulders and she whispered his name, it was all he could do to remember his plan to ensure that she remembered this night always.

Murdoch deliberately drove Isabella over the edge with one last potent stroke of his tongue. The lady shouted his name and trembled from head to toe as she found her release. The tempest lasted longer than he might have expected. He blew upon her and succeeding in making her release surge forth again. Murdoch held fast, feeling a greater sense of triumph in this than in any deed ever.

When she looked down at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, Murdoch could not keep from grinning at her.

“Murdoch!” She said his name in an exhalation of wonder that had his erection straining even more against his chausses. She knelt down before him then and kissed him with ardor. Her breasts brushed against his chest, and she was in his arms, her passionate kiss making it hard for him to remember his intent to move slowly. “I had no idea,” she whispered.

“That was the point.” He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, liking how it filled his grasp perfectly. “As if we were made each for the other,” he said and she smiled. Murdoch bent to kiss that inviting nipple. Isabella sighed contentment, then her hand fell to the lace of his chausses.

“This is not fair,” she said, untying the knot with busy fingers. “You, too, must find your pleasure.” Her eyes danced as she looked at him. “Should I torment you in the same way?”

Murdoch knew he would not last such a caress, not now when he burned with desire. Just the notion made him perilously close to losing control. “Not yet,” he said, his words uncommonly husky.

Isabella smiled and ran one fingertip down the length of the laced front of his chausses. Murdoch gritted his teeth and caught his breath at her caress, well aware that she watched him avidly. “You like this,” she said softly.

“A caress given willingly is nigh irresistible,” he managed to say and she smiled.

Then she looked down at him and sobered. “I have never looked upon a man before,” she confessed. As if she had made a choice, her fingers began to make quick work of the lace. “Let me look upon you.”

Before Murdoch could decide whether he should halt her or not, Isabella had parted the front of his chausses, freeing his erection. She considered him for a moment, biting her lip, and he wondered whether the deed ahead frightened her. What had she been told?

Nothing that daunted this lady, it was clear. For Isabella’s warm hands slid beneath the cloth and over Murdoch’s hips, easing the garment from his body with an efficiency he associated with her. She gripped his buttocks just as he had seized hers, the touch of her small hands upon him making Murdoch dizzy.

She bent to take him within her mouth, but Murdoch would not survive if she touched him.

Murdoch caught her shoulders in his hands and kissed her, drawing her to her feet as he stood before her. Then he kicked his chausses aside, lifting his hands to invite her to look upon him. “And here is your chance to look,” he said, keeping his tone light. Murdoch turned before her, finding uncertainty in her eyes when he faced her once again. She looked only upon one part of him, a part of him that responded with vigor to her perusal. There was amusement in her eyes when he faced her again.

“Will it fit?” she asked.

Murdoch smiled. “It seems that we are each made for the other,” he said quietly.

Isabella nodded. “And if that is so, you will fit.”

“What have you been told of this deed?”

“That a maiden bleeds, at least the first time, which would seem to indicate that the fit is not always an easy one.” Isabella met his gaze, her own shining. “I know nothing of what you just did, and it seems a marked omission.”

Murdoch grinned.

Isabella sobered then. “Also that if a man finds his release while so buried within a lady, a child may result.”

“Is this what troubles you? A child?” Murdoch knew that he would do whatsoever was necessary to reassure her, even deny himself on this night. He felt suddenly that the shadow of the Elphine Queen was too close. If Isabella bore his child and he was lost, she would be shamed in truth.

And he would leave his lady with a poor legacy.

“No!” Isabella stepped closer. “Murdoch, I would proudly bear your child. Do not imagine otherwise.”

He shoved a hand through his hair, unable to think clearly when she appealed to him, so nude and so beautiful. “But Isabella, I would do you no disservice...”

“For you are your father’s son,” she said, catching his face in her hands and compelling him to look at her again. “Show me, Murdoch. I will have no man but you in all my days, so this is your chance to show me this.” She smiled with mischief. “Otherwise I shall die in ignorance and I have no admiration of ignorance.”

When Isabella stretched to kiss him, her breasts colliding with his chest, Murdoch could not deny her. He caught her closer, his resistance melting like snow in springtime.

“We ease its way,” he promised long moments later, then swept her into his arms and returned to the pallet by the fire, kissing her all the while. To his relief, her passion rose again beneath the assault of his kisses. He laid beside her and smiled down at her, liking that she preened for him, instead of covering her nudity with her hands.

He slid one hand down the length of her, then slipped his hand between her thighs. He touched her then, his fingers more bold than his tongue had been. Isabella sighed with pleasure and reached up to kiss him. Murdoch locked his other arm around her waist, holding her fast against him.

He felt the slick heat gather more quickly and could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Isabella writhed against him in a most enticing way, the scent and the feel of her feeding his own desire. He moved his fingers with greater insistence, feeling the crescendo rise within her. He liked his growing awareness of her rhythms and knew that if they spent a lifetime loving each other, the deed would only become more satisfying.

Just before Isabella might have found her release, he rolled to his back, carrying her with him. She sprawled atop him and Murdoch smiled as he tugged her knees so that she straddled him.

“This way, you take me as quickly or as slowly as you desire,” he said softly. He moved so that he was barely inside her and caught his breath when her heat closed around him even that much.

Isabella swallowed, her hands braced upon Murdoch’s shoulders.

“Too big?” he asked, fearful of hurting her.

Isabella smiled at him then. “I am fond of a challenge.” She took a breath, then eased lower to take another increment of him inside her. The sensation was exquisite. Murdoch thought he might explode with the pleasure. Isabella was so tight that he had to close his eyes and struggle for control.

“Slowly,” Isabella said, her voice a little husky. “You said slowly was best.”

Murdoch could only nod, because his bold maiden took another measure of him. He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to withhold the tide that grew within him.

She clearly mistook his reaction, for she leaned over him with concern. “Does it hurt you?”

“No! I but endeavor to proceed slowly and that may kill me.” He looked at her and found her smiling. “And you?”

“No.” Isabella wriggled her hips in a way that prompted Murdoch to catch his breath. “I feel filled in a most curious way, but it does not hurt.” She rolled her hips again, exploring the sensation and Murdoch was certain he would die of pleasure.

“Good,” Murdoch managed to say, although he scarce recognized his own voice. When she moved again, he locked his hands around her waist, uncertain he would be able to endure her welcome torment.

When he was almost fully inside her, Isabella leaned forward, her hair spilling on to his chest like silk. “I think you do not truly like this,” she said and it took Murdoch a moment to realize she teased him. “You look to be a man in pain.”

Murdoch slanted a glance at her. “I think you know you torture me.”

She smiled, looking so playful that he was enchanted all over again. “It is not unpleasant to know that I can hold you in thrall,” she said. “A knight and a renegade, a man so much more powerful than me, yet-” Isabella swiveled her hips, leaving Murdoch gasping “-yet, you are my captive in this moment.”

“I am not without resource,” he said, then slid one hand between them to caress her anew. That secret pearl was still engorged and slick, the slow movement of his fingertip making Isabella’s lips part with pleasure. He knew then that he would watch her find her release while she sat atop him, that he would somehow hold out until she had another orgasm.

“You tease me overmuch,” she protested.

“I would please you overmuch.” He moved his finger with surety and Isabella’s eyes flashed. She sat down abruptly then, taking all of him inside her with a speed that left him gasping. “Isabella!”

“You are right,” she said, her eyes glimmering with satisfaction. “You do fit.”

“I told you to trust me.”

“And so I shall. But how shall we ensure your pleasure?”

Murdoch did not think it would take long to achieve that. He moved inside her and Isabella inhaled. She moved then of her own volition, the tightness of her driving him to distraction. She rolled her hips as he caressed her, stretching her arms high over her head as she moved, and presenting Murdoch with a most enticing vision.

He knew then that he would never have enough of this woman. Isabella had an allure beyond all others he had known. He wanted to see her laugh and watch her find her pleasure—over and over again. He wanted to fill her, to possess her, to claim her and to live his life with her. He wanted to have children with her, to awaken to find her slumbering beside him every morning of his life, to take her hand in his every night when he retired. He wanted the soft silk of her hair tangled in his fingers and the sound of her laughter in his ear.

He wanted to love her every night for the rest of his life. And this deed made him determined to triumph, to ensure that he survived the curse of the Elphine Queen, to offer for his lady and keep her from any shame. He wanted to defend her for years to come, to savor her and to love her.

Every day and night of his life.

Murdoch drove himself deep within Isabella, watching the flush rise over her breasts, watching her nipples grow tight and dark, watching her lips part and her eyes shine. He touched her with greater insistence, wanting her to find that release before he spilled his own seed. He saw her stretch for the roof, heard her gasp, felt her harden once again beneath his touch.

And when she cried out in ecstasy, Murdoch rolled her beneath him in one smooth gesture. She instinctively wound her legs around his waist and he felt snared by this woman and her touch.

Even better, there was nowhere else he yearned to be.

Murdoch caught her nape in his hands, bracing his weight on his elbows, and kissed her deeply. It took only three strokes for him to explode with a pleasure beyond any he had ever experienced before.

For there was no woman who could ever hold a candle to his Isabella.

Chapter Fourteen

Murdoch had told her the truth. Isabella laid beneath him, running her fingers through his hair as he slumbered against her. His face was buried against her neck, his breath soft on her throat, his seed warm inside her. Even as he dozed, he still braced his weight above her.

Protecting her.

Even from himself.

Isabella closed her eyes and hoped that Murdoch’s seed took root within her. She would be glad to bear his child, but she would be more glad to bear that child with him by her side. She could not lose him, not now. It would be unjust to find such a treasure as the magic between them, only to have it stolen away.

Still there was the matter of the Elphine Queen. Isabella bit her lip as she recalled that gruesome orb.

It seemed that the wind outside the cottage grew in intensity, as if it would rip the thatched roof free and reveal them to her gaze. Isabella had a sense the Elphine Queen knew her power had been diminished, that she had found a rival, and that she did not appreciate the change. The fire flickered on the hearth as it had not before, and Isabella eyed the hole in the roof overhead for the smoke. Did she see a great eye, filled with malice, within the darkness framed there?

She eased from beneath Murdoch’s weight, leaving him to doze. She wondered when he had last slept in confidence of his own safety and guessed he would have need of every measure of strength for the challenge before them.

She found a blanket on the far side of the cabin and spread it over him. There was a pail of water, as well, and Isabella certainly had need of a wash. There was a bracket to hold a kettle over the fire, and she used both to heat the water. She washed the blood from her thighs with care, so lost in her thoughts that she did not realize that Murdoch had awakened and was watching her.

She was reassured to see how blue his eyes were.

When he smiled at her with undisguised satisfaction, her heart leapt.

“Are you sore?” he asked softly.

Isabella shrugged off his question. She smiled. “I believe it was well worth the exchange. Have you slept of late?”

He shook his head and rolled to his back, stretching like a great cat. “Not well since the new moon. If I am to slumber, I will do so after the next one.” The notion seemed to make him impatient, perhaps with the unwelcome reminder of the challenge he faced. He cast aside the blanket and rose to his feet. He strode to her side, lifting the cloth from her fingers and rinsing it in the warm water.

He washed her back for her in silence, then pressed a kiss to her nape. The intimacy put a lump in Isabella’s throat; his next words made it larger.

“I thank you, my Isabella,” he said quietly, his lips moving against her flesh. “You have surrendered more to me than was my right to take.”

Isabella turned to face him. “Do you regret it?”

His smile was devilish. “How could I regret such splendor?” Again he wound a tendril of her hair around his finger, his eyes gleaming as he kissed it. “And you?”

Isabella shook her head and his smile broadened. “Tell me about it.”

He arched a brow, but she knew he understood.

“How were you captured? What was the realm of the Fae like? How were you released?”

Murdoch wrung out the cloth, then began to wash himself with a concentration the task did not deserve. “You should don your chemise. Something changes in the wind and I would not have you cold.”

It was not just the wind that changed, for he seemed newly pensive. “Will you answer me?”

Murdoch’s gaze locked with hers, his intensity making Isabella’s heart leap. “You deserve no less,” he said with quiet force. “But be warned that you may not like the tale when it is told, my Isabella.”

* * *

Murdoch dressed with impatient gestures, donning only his chausses and his chemise. Isabella pulled on her own chemise, her expression watchful. He checked but her kirtle and their cloaks were still sodden. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and urged her to sit on the pallet before the hearth.

The fire did not need to be fed, the blaze as robust as when they had arrived. That was a potent reminder that they had stepped outside the mortal realm for this night. Where was the Elphine Queen? Murdoch had to reason that the man who had admitted them to the cottage had cast some spell that sheltered them. He doubted it would last past the dawn and would ensure that they left well in advance lest they be trapped.

He opened the door a slight increment and looked out into the wild fury of the night. A storm ripped over the land, a storm that would surely have killed them both had they not found this shelter. Murdoch could hear the angry thrash of the sea. He shut the door and bolted it, glad that the smith’s blade was yet buried in the threshold.

He turned to find Isabella watching him intently.

“I rode out from Seton Manor five years ago, in the spring, to join the campaign in France. I did so expressly against the will of my father.” He moved back to the fire and Isabella took his hand, drawing him to sit beside her on the pallet.

“Why would you defy your father?”

Murdoch sighed. “We always argued, my father and I. My mother died when I was ten, but she always said that he and I were too much the same, that he saw a mirror of himself in me. As you might imagine, when we disagreed, he did not care for the reflection. Either our thoughts were as one, or we were arguing.” He sighed. “I am a younger son, and my older brother, Duncan, is as different from me as a man might be. He is quiet and contemplative, more like our mother.” Murdoch fell silent then, overwhelmed by his memories and his regret.

Isabella pressed his hand, once again adding light to his darkness. “Tell me of your father.”

“After my mother’s death, my father did not show so much care in his holding and his responsibilities. We had numerous crops fail. Seton Manor commands a holding that is less than prosperous, for the land is hard to till and the climate is less than encouraging. It is beautiful, though, and the forests are filled with game. It is a comparatively small holding, but one that can be coaxed to provide for those who live upon it—and there are those who would live there, independent of hardship, simply because its beauty speaks to the soul.”

“Like you,” Isabella guessed and he smiled at her.

“It touches my heart. It was my mother’s legacy and she loved it, too. When she passed away, I think my father could not see the beauty without her. And so the fortunes of the holding faltered. There was bad luck, to be certain, but he also refused to act as once he might have done. He refused to choose.”

“What could he have done?”

“There is a spring not far from Seton Manor, upon the land held by my father and my mother’s father. And this spring has been reputed for centuries to possess healing powers. People have come from all over Scotland to bathe in its waters and have left tokens and prayers. There is a stone there, one erected by a laird centuries past, and etched in a language we now longer read—it has been popular for as long as that. There is an old power there, although I did not believe it when I was younger. The church, of course, does not approve of such pagan shrines, much less the powers attributed to them, and over the centuries, the popularity of the spring has faded.”

“But I walked there one day, thinking of the difficulties facing our holding, and I realized that dubious crops were not new at Seton Manor. Those pilgrims must have sustained the people of Seton Manor in the past. I had the idea that my father could build upon the spring’s reputation, to restore the finances of the holding using a similar mechanism. I suggested to him that he buy a relic, a Christian relic, one associated with healing, and install it in the chapel of Seton Manor. I thought we could create a new center of pilgrimage based upon the reputation of the old. Together, they might create great cures.”

“My aunt said this was done throughout England and Scotland, that pagan sites were turned to Christian ones.”

Murdoch nodded. “The idea was that of a pope, not mine, but I thought it a good one. My father, however, would hear none of it.” He winced. “He insisted that the sole source of religious relics in all of Scotland was the Lammergeier family, that they were sorcerors and thieves, and that he would never bestow so much as a penny into the coffers of such a family. We had a tremendous argument, for I believed that he was simply stubborn—and that his people would suffer for it. There was no seed for planting, nothing in the granaries, and people were hungry. Even the creatures of the forest seemed to be less plentiful that winter. My father, however, would not relent. His suspicions of your family ran deep.”

“And your brother?”

“He took my father’s side.” Murdoch looked down at his hands. “We argued violently at the new year, and many harsh things were said between us.”

“You defended my family,” Isabella murmured.

Murdoch flicked her a look. “I would see no one condemned by rumor alone. It seemed to me to be prejudice based upon nothing at all, and irrational.”

Isabella leaned against him with obvious satisfaction.

“In the end, I told my father that if he would not see to his duties, then I would. And I departed the next morning, over his objections, to pledge my sword to the Earl of Buchan. With him, I joined some six thousand other men who fought for the Dauphin as mercenaries in France. Others had made that journey and gained land, holdings, wives, and fortunes. I thought to do the same. I thought that if my fortunes held, I might save Seton Manor—despite my father’s attitude. At the very least, I might gain a future of my own, for we all knew that my brother Duncan would inherit Seton Manor. It is not a sufficiently rich estate to support two.”

Murdoch took a deep breath. “I saw much on that journey, much I would have preferred not to see. In May of 1420, we occupied the city of Melun for the Dauphin, holding it against Henry V of England. The astonishing thing was that King James of Scotland, long the prisoner of the English kings, rode alongside Henry’s commanders in that battle. He appeared, pennants flying and standards unfurled, allied with the English.”

“I heard of this,” Isabella said.

“It was a shock to find ourselves fighting against the man who is our own king. It was more a shock that Henry triumphed that day—and all the Scotsmen captured within the walls of Melun were hanged as traitors.” Murdoch swallowed. “James did not speak in their defense.”

He stared into the fire, still haunted by that day. “And so it is that one sees how a man’s alliances will change based upon who provides his fare, or who has the most to offer to him overall. I was not the only one heartsick at this event. The subsequent spring, we triumphed over the English at Baugé, on Easter Sunday. I was sorely wounded for I was stabbed in the thigh. When the wound festered, the Earl of Buchan gave me leave to return home, that I might see my home and family one last time.”

Isabella frowned, her gaze falling to his thigh in confusion. “But you have no scar.”

“Not now, for it was healed.”

“A festering wound? Should you know how to heal such an injury without leaving a scar, I would gladly hear of it.”

Murdoch smiled. “You will. Easter was early that year, and I made good speed in returning home, perhaps because I traveled only with Zephyr and a palfrey, perhaps because I was so ill that men took pity on me. I found passage on a ship bound from LeHavre to Dundee, a Templar ship sailing in pursuit of the first fleece of the year. And then I rode north, intent upon arriving home before spring’s full flower. I was fevered by then, but the Templars had been kind to me, and perhaps Zephyr recalled the way.”

“And what happened when you arrived home?” Isabella prompted when he fell silent again.

“I never arrived there.”

He did not touch her, simply stared into the fire as she watched him. His thoughts filled with the memory of his ignorance and his foolish trust. “I reached a valley near Seton Manor. I recognized it well. On that day, even in my state, I was astonished to find the valley desolate and quiet, utterly devoid of people. Now, I wonder if my isolation was but a glamour, another trick of the Elphine Queen.

“It began to snow, large flakes of snow that were so unseasonable that I did not believe they could last for long, much less impede my progress. By mid-afternoon, I realized the storm was not abating as one might expect. The snow began to accumulate upon the road and indeed, I lost sight of the track many times, for there were no others taking that course on that day. I thought I would take shelter at the first abode I found, for I had coin to pay a soul to take in both me and my horses. I was certain that I should find some place before it fell dark.”

He shook his head. “But there was none. There was not a sign of life in that valley. There was only snow, snow falling endlessly, snow hiding the peaks on either side and obscuring the road underfoot. It gathered on my shoulders and chilled my fingers. The hours passed, the snow became deeper and I began to fear for my horses. We had need of shelter, but there was none to be had. In that stretch of the valley, there was not so much as a tree. It simply stretched on endlessly, barren of all but snow and cold.

“I knew it was not so extensive a valley. I knew I should have been home by early afternoon, but I rode endlessly through the swirling snow. The sky darkened and there was no sign of a light or a cottage on any side. The wind rose, swirling around us and snatching at my garb. It was not long before I acknowledged that I was well and truly lost. I feared that I had strayed from the path and ridden in a circle. I dared not stop, though, for it was so cold. I feared that if I should fall asleep, I should never awaken.

“And that was when I saw the haven. At first, I thought it could not be genuine. I had looked so long for refuge that the blazing light seemed too good to be true. It did not disappear, however, and indeed, the light grew brighter as I approached it.”

“Just as the light to this cottage appeared,” Isabella whispered.

Murdoch nodded. “Exactly thus. The horses sensed some reprieve as well, for they were invigorated when I urged them toward the light. I am not certain I could have halted them, even if I had shown the wisdom to be skeptical.

“To my astonishment, the door that emitted the glow of firelight seemed to be set into the very side of the hill. It was my error to not pay attention to this detail, and I ignored my initial reaction because I smelled food, felt warmth and heard music. The portal was large and wide, like the gate to a great castle. The haven was so welcome to me that I was over the threshold before I gave pause to think. I rode directly through that gate and was greeted most kindly. Stable hands appeared with such speed that I was amazed, and if they seemed somewhat unusual in appearance, I attributed this to my hunger and fatigue.

“I was led into a great hall, one from which the music and the scent of food emanated. There was much merriment in this place and the music was such that it lifted my heart. Even better, my malaise retreated. My fever abated and my thoughts became clear. The pain in my leg faded to nothing at all, and when I looked, I saw that it was as healthy as ever it had been.” He looked at Isabella. “I thought I dreamed, or that it was delusion from the fever. The relief was so welcome that I did not wish to awaken. In that glorious hall, I danced and I ate, and my cares abandoned me.

“The wine was golden in that place. It tasted of nectar and honey and every kind of spice. It was intoxicating simply to sniff of a filled chalice. And there was such an abundance of it that no one in that hall lacked for more. It was potent, too, for I quickly became disoriented, forgetting myself in the pleasure offered by the music and the wine.

“And so it was that I first faced the Elphine Queen with the vigor of their wine flowing through my veins. I was presented to her, for she was my hostess, but I did not comprehend truly who she was.” Murdoch swallowed. “I saw only her ineffable beauty. Her skin is flawless and fair, her hair like ebony silk that flows to her very feet. She is slender and tall, her breasts round and firm. She smiles as if she knows the secrets of the world, and perhaps she does. She spoke to me, her voice beguiling and melodious, and I was fool enough to look into the majesty of her eyes. She welcomed me and then she kissed me full on the lips.”

He fell silent then, less willing to recall the next part.

Isabella placed her hand on his arm. “What happened next?”

“I do not know. Perhaps I swooned. Perhaps I might have thought it the wine. But I awakened naked and cold, my ankles and wrists shackled to a wall of ice. My bonds were black snakes, coiled around my wrists, and they bit me when I struggled against them.” He rubbed his wrist then, unable to dismiss the recollection. “My sole companion was a scribe, a dwarf who wrote a tale upon my skin in indigo.”

“The marks,” Isabella guessed, and he looked up to find her eyes wide.

Murdoch nodded. “He told me later, in one of his rare talkative moments, that the marks would make me one of theirs. And in truth, he had similar adornment upon his flesh. But that first time, he did not speak. I fought against the biting snakes and the prick of his tool, until suddenly the chamber was filled with radiance. The Elphine Queen came to me then and kissed my brow, and I was in the hall at her side once more. The music played and the golden wine flowed.”

He swallowed and frowned. “I thought I had had a nightmare, no more than that, perhaps because of the wine.” He slanted a glance at a rapt Isabella. “But I had the same dream over and over again in that place. Each time I thought I slept, I awakened with the dwarf. Each time, the marks upon my flesh were more extensive. Each time I was seemingly awakened from the nightmare of that dungeon by the kiss of the Elphine Queen. Over and over and over again.”

Murdoch swallowed. “And in those dreams of the dwarf and the dungeon, the realm I visited was vastly different from the one in which I danced so merrily. Its denizens lived in darkness and rot, favoring the shadows and the cemeteries, the dark places beneath stones. They ate of carrion and drank blood. They were deceitful and devoid of emotion, knowing nothing of love or affection or kindness. They sought only pleasure and amusement, no matter the expense to another. I saw that they all had such marks upon their flesh, and it was the dwarf who also told me that they were not dead. He said they stood outside of time, subject neither to birth or death. He told me that some are content with their state, still others meddle in the affairs of mortals. Yet others actively conspire against mortals, blaming us for their situation.”

“But how did you escape?”

“I began to dread those nightmares and even to become convinced that they were the truth of this realm. The time came when the marks covered all of my flesh and the Elphine Queen showed me favor in the hall. She led me to her bedchamber, and a dread filled me. I begged her for my release, that I might see my father and my home again. At first, she would not heed me, but then I told her that I would trade any one thing to return to Seton Manor.”

“She released you?”

“Evidently so.” Murdoch nodded, then slanted a glance at Isabella. “I found myself in that same valley, my steeds grazing by my side, the sides of the hills touched with snow. The marks upon my flesh were gone. My horses looked exactly as I recalled. Even my hair was the same length. I thought I had dreamed the entire adventure. I thought the golden hall with its wine and music and even its queen had been a dream that had come to me while I slept out the storm.” He patted his leg. “Except that my thigh was completely healed, just as it had been before I went to France. That made me question the evidence before my eyes.”

Isabella’s eyes were round. “A miracle.”

“Or a debt.” Murdoch frowned. “I reached home to discover that the war in France was over and that the king returned to Scotland. I learned that it was not the spring of 1421. It was January 2, 1424.”

“Just a few weeks ago!”

Murdoch nodded. “But all has changed at Seton Manor. My father is dead and my brother blames me for the loss. He is bitter, for he is a laird with no coin to his hand.”

“But that is not your fault!”

“In a way, it is. Indeed, it seems that there is much laid at my door. After my departure, my father changed his mind and chose to take my counsel. He attended the auction of relics at Ravensmuir and emptied his treasury in order to acquire the hand of the Magdalene.”

“That would have been when you were journeying home,” Isabella mused.

Murdoch nodded. “And the relic was a boon to Seton Manor. Several miracles were attributed to it and pilgrims came, just as I had expected they would. The coffers were not barren any longer, though my brother tells of my father blaming me for not insisting upon the choice instead of riding to war.”

“All is clear once it is done.”

“Last spring, the Earl of Buchan spent a night at Seton Manor. He thought to confirm my health and welfare, given my unfortunate state when we parted. He is a good man and had been greatly concerned for me—his duties in France had kept him there since my departure. But that was when my father learned that I had been so sorely injured. In three years, I had not returned. They concluded that I must have died on the journey and though the Earl gave his condolences, my father—according to Duncan—took to his bed and died within a fortnight.”

“He feared he had lost you forever, and because of his own refusal to listen to you.”

“My brother blames me now for my father’s death, for clearly I was stubborn myself and refused to return home.”

“But you did not!”

“But I cannot tell him of the Elphine Queen.” Murdoch sighed. “Worse, the earl had a young knight pledged to his service, name of Ross Lammergeier.”

“My brother.”

Murdoch nodded. “My father’s old prejudices came to the fore during that visit, and I do not doubt that he made some comment to which your brother took exception, for evidently they exchanged heated words. It was not uncommon for my father to do as much when he was in his cups.”

“But the relic disappeared that night,” Isabella guessed.

Murdoch took her hand in his, even as he grimaced. “Indeed, my brother discovered after the earl’s departure that the hand of the Magdalene was gone. He and my father concluded that this was my fault, for they had known the true nature of the Lammergeier from the outset but I had swayed their judgment. The loss was worse than the original situation, because of me. The treasury was empty. The relic was gone. I was apparently dead, and once again, there was no grain for tilling.”

“That was why you believed the relic to be at Kinfairlie, because of Ross.”

“Because my brother sent word to the earl, demanding reparation for the loss, and the earl admitted that Ross had left his service abruptly.”

Isabella bit her lip. “I wonder if this was the source of the argument Alexander had with Ross at the Yule. It was Alexander who negotiated for Ross to serve the earl after he left service at Inverfyre.”

“And so he might rightly be vexed by your brother’s choice to abandon the earl’s household.” Murdoch nodded understanding, then smiled at Isabella. “I develop a keen sympathy for Alexander with so many willful siblings beneath his care.”

Isabella smiled. “Tell me more about Seton Manor.”

“I returned home to a cold greeting. My brother blamed me, not only for my father’s death but for the expenditure of coin that left Seton Manor destitute when the relic was stolen and for its current destitution. Instead of welcoming me home, he turned me away at the door. He bade me repair what I had done, speaking as bitterly as once my father had done.”

“And the Elphine Queen?”

“I thought she had released me, at least until I reached home. I had only just abandoned my suspicion when I was proven to be wrong. As Stewart greeted me, an unholy wind blew down the valley, covering the trees with hoarfrost and setting snow upon the road. I saw her, triumphant, and knew she had only relinquished me for the moment. I learned later that she had taken my heart as her due in exchange for my reprieve, and so ensnared it that I could survive only one month. My choice was to return to her or die, and likely still be claimed as her plaything.”

Isabella’s hand tightened on his. “It is not much of a choice.”

Murdoch looked at Isabella, seeing the empathy in her eyes. “I thought my course a true one, until she haunted me in Kinfairlie’s forest. I thought I might lose my wits before the month was ended.” He smiled at Isabella. “I did not count upon a curious maiden. ” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, closing her fingers over his embrace. “I hope you do not pay too high a price for your faith in me, my Isabella.”

“I will not,” she said with a conviction he did not share. She knelt beside him and reached for his shoulders. “There is no price that can make me regret this,” she vowed softly, then kissed him.

He might have succumbed to her allure once again, but there was a severe knock upon the door.

* * *

Isabella might not have answered the summons at the door, but Murdoch did not hesitate. In the blink of an eye, he had risen to his feet and left her side, striding across the cottage with a vigor that recalled her first sight of him in Kinfairlie’s bailey. He hauled open the door, then laughed aloud.

“Master Smith!”

Isabella hastened to his side, seeing that it was indeed the smith from Kinfairlie village. There was snow on his hood and his shoulders, and he stamped his feet against the cold. His breath came in white puffs and Isabella saw that the fields were covered with a fresh blanket of snow.

The smith looked at her, understanding in his eyes, then glanced down at the threshold of the cottage and smiled. The silver hilt of that blade shone there, even surrounded by fresh snow. Then he spoke to Murdoch. “The laird will ride to hunt at first light, and you are the prey he seeks.”

“No! Alexander would not,” Isabella began to protest, the words dying on her tongue as she realized he would.

“His beloved sister has been seized by a renegade,” the smith said quietly. “What else would a man of honor do but lend chase? He would have ridden out last night, had it not been for the storm.”

“I thank you for your tidings,” Murdoch said briskly. “Come in.” Even as he gestured in welcome, he retrieved his boots and tugged them on, then lifted his tabard.

The smith’s gaze danced over the interior, his eyes narrowing as he watched the fire on the hearth. Isabella realized then that they had never put more wood on the fire during all the night, yet it blazed as vigorously as it had upon their arrival. “I will not, but I thank you.”

“We should leave with all haste,” Murdoch said to Isabella. “We will not be here at cock’s cry.”

She nodded and hastened to fetch her own kirtle, well aware that the smith lingered outside the door. In moments, they both were dressed, their cloaks only slightly damp. Murdoch caught her hand in his and led her through the portal, then bent and removed the dagger from the threshold.

Even as he returned the blade to the smith, the doorway glimmered and shimmered. The sight reminded Isabella of the surface of the millpond in summer, then the entire cottage faded from view as surely as if it had never been. Snowy fields stretched around them, the air still and cold. In the distance was the silhouette of Ravensmuir, silhouetted against the pewter churning of the sea.

A horse nickered and Isabella turned to see a white stallion stamping behind the smith, fighting the bit and tossing his head.

“Zephyr!” Murdoch strode to the horse, his delight more than clear. He stroked the beast, checking him with care and the horse nuzzled his hair with affection. “How did you retrieve him?” he asked, his eyes alight with pleasure.

The smith smiled. “I feared his shoe was loose. Indeed, concern kept me awake half the night, until my own wife bade me go and check so she could manage to sleep. I could not confirm my suspicion, so was compelled to take him for a ride.” He shrugged. “It seems I erred, for his shoes are all in good condition.” His eyes widened in mock horror. “In fact, the beast fared so well that he escaped me this morn and I could not catch him.”

“I thank you for yet another gift!” Murdoch said, clasping that man’s hand and grasping his shoulder. “I owe you much, Master Smith.”

The smith turned to Isabella with a smile. “I told you once, Murdoch Seton, how you might best repay me,” he said softly, his words making no sense to Isabella.

Murdoch grinned, through, and caught Isabella around the waist, swinging her into Zephyr’s saddle. He was invigorated and animated as he had not been since that first day, and Isabella dared to be encouraged by the sight.

“I shall do my utmost to keep that pledge, Master Smith,” he vowed.

“A man of reason can ask no more.”

“Can you tell us more of how Murdoch can evade the Elphine Queen?” Isabella asked.

The smith shook his head. “The charm must be filled unwittingly, but fear not, my lady. I believe he has embarked well upon it.”

It was not all the reassurance Isabella might have hoped to hear, but she smiled a little and thanked the smith all the same.

The men shook hands then, and parted. For a long moment Murdoch watched the smith walk back toward the village. He then took the reins in his hand and led Zephyr across the fields. He kicked the snow aside whenever he had doubt as to what laid beneath it, and Isabella admired the care he took with his steed even though they made a slow pace. She could see that not far ahead, the ground became more level, and there he would be able to ride with her.

There was a faint tinge of pink on the eastern horizon when Murdoch abruptly stopped. He gestured to the surface of the snow, and it was only with the light of the dawn—and the shadows it cast—that Isabella could see what he indicated.

Tracks in the snow.

“What is it?” she asked.

He crouched, peering at the marks without disturbing them. “Small boots, like those of very small children.” He flicked a glance at Isabella and she knew what he was thinking.

“Spriggans.” She pointed to long lines. “Dragging their spoils in the night to Ravensmuir, just as they vowed they would.”

“They are the thieves?”

“They reside at Kinfairlie keep. My sister Elizabeth has seen them for years. There was a time when one of them, a spriggan named Darg, believed all the hoard of relics within Ravensmuir’s caverns to be its own possession. That spriggan fought mightily with my aunt Rosamunde when the hoard was sold at that auction.”

Murdoch nodded. “And so they reclaim what they believe to be their own.” He flicked a glance at her. “And so we find another place where the veil between the worlds is thin.”

“There is an old tale that Kinfairlie’s tower has a window which looks into Fae,” Isabella recalled. “My sister Vivienne was much enamored of that tale.” She shook a finger at Murdoch. “It told of a lost maiden, one claimed by a Fae bridegroom who left a red rose in exchange for his bride. That rose proved to be wrought of ice and melted in Kinfairlie’s hall. There is yet a stain upon the floor there, and Alexander always points to it when he recounts the tale.” She sighed and nodded. “And Rosamunde tells that she entered the realm of the Fae in the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, when they collapsed and killed Tynan. She only survived because she was taken into the Fae realm.”

He cast her an intent look. “But she left it.”

Isabella thought about the matter for a moment, then nodded. “She did! Padraig saved her, though they talk little of the details.”

Murdoch grinned at her and Isabella dared to be encouraged at his prospects.

“Why would the spriggans leave Kinfairlie?” he asked then. “It is no small labor to take their spoils this far.”

Isabella shrugged. “Darg sang of intruders, kings and queens who would seize what was not their own.”

“They fear to be robbed again.” He nodded, then cast Isabella a sparkling glance. His confidence was visibly returned. “And so they shall be, but not by a king or a queen.” And he swung into the saddle behind her, his arm locking around her waist.

“It is odd to see it without the ravens,” Isabella whispered, as the keep of Ravensmuir loomed before them.

"What do you mean?"

“There were always ravens resident here. They always circled the tower and it is odd to arrive here to find them gone.”

“What happened to the ravens? Did they leave when the keep was ruined?”

“No, they left later. Their departure was why my brother Malcolm chose to leave his inheritance.” Isabella was aware of Murdoch’s interest. “He said the entire flock flew around the broken tower, as if in tribute, then flew as one across the sea and disappeared. He took it as a sign that he, too, should leave Ravensmuir.”

“Where did he go?”

“He has taken the trade of a mercenary in Europe, against Alexander’s counsel. Alexander holds the seal of Ravensmuir in trust for Malcolm, as well as the horses that rightfully belong to that holding.”

“The black destriers?”

“Kinfairlie continues the breeding, in Ravensmuir’s stead.”

They rode in silence for a moment, then Murdoch cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but I do not understand. Why would Malcolm abandon his inheritance because of the ravens departure? While the keep is damaged, he would still have the income from the breeding of the horses to aid in its reconstruction.”

“He saw their abandonment as a sign,” Isabella said. “These ravens were not like their fellows elsewhere. My uncle could speak to them, it was said, and they gathered tidings for him from afar, ensuring that he knew of the deeds of men when he should not. It was told that he learned their language from his own father, who was Laird of Ravensmuir before him, and that no secrets could be kept from either of them.”

“And thus they were said to be sorcerors,” Murdoch said with a smile.

Isabella smiled back. “When truly, they simply had unnatural allies.”

“There are those who would call that sorcery in itself.” Murdoch sobered. “Or perhaps the spoils of an unholy bargain.” He surveyed the keep with narrowed eyes and she thought of his own bargain. Then he coaxed Zephyr to greater speed.

As if he would face the worst as soon as possible and be done with it.

Isabella swallowed, not nearly so intent upon parting from her knight—or seeing him pay some dreadful price. She wanted to hold this moment fast, to have as much time as possible with him, but she knew it was not to be. The moon was setting, taunting her with the fact that it was waning already. Its last light glinted on the snow, making its surface look to be crusted in diamonds.

In the distance, something gold winked as it moved into the shadow of Ravensmuir.

* * *

At the heart of Kinfairlie’s forest was a smoking wasteland. It was not a large area, merely a clearing that had been made bigger than once it was. The contrast between its blackened state and the surrounding forest was remarkable.

But what struck Stewart’s heart was the realization that the burned area was precisely where their camp had been.

Stewart and the boys arrived at first light, all of them exhausted after a day and a night of hard riding. They halted their steeds as one to stare at the blackened ground. Within this circle, the trees were burned to stumps, and the undergrowth was still smoking.

It was curiously silent, the wild creatures having retreated to other areas of the forest.

The sky was as pale as burnished silver, devoid of clouds, and the wind was still. There was only the tendrils of smoke rising from the devastation. Stewart crossed himself as he looked upon it, for he feared the worst. They rode through the forest toward Kinfairlie in silence. When they reached the perimeter of the woods, Gavin bit his lip and looked out to the sea.

“Do you think my lord Murdoch was trapped in the fire, sir?” Hamish asked, his voice small.

Stewart considered the scene. “Either he has been captured and languishes within Kinfairlie’s dungeon, or he escaped. If he escaped, it must be because he followed the road away from Kinfairlie.” He scanned the land in every direction. Could Murdoch have ridden across the fields? He caught a glimpse of movement in the far distance, though he could not identify what he saw from this vantage point. Whatever—or whoever—it was seemed to be moving toward the ruined keep of Ravensmuir.

Something white, on a snowy field.

“The laird prepares to ride out,” Gavin said quietly, pointing to the array of pennants and horses being mustered in Kinfairlie’s distant bailey. “I say my lord Murdoch lives.”

Stewart could not suppress his smile. “I say you are right, and I am glad of it.” He pointed toward the distant motion on the fields. “Do you with your young eyes think that to be a white horse with a rider crossing the fields to Ravensmuir?”

Gavin’s expression lit as he stared. “I cannot say for certain, my lord, but I believe you to be right in this.”

“And I would know the truth of it,” Stewart said. “Ride on, for Ravensmuir!”

Chapter Fifteen

Isabella was filled with trepidation as she and Murdoch reached Ravensmuir. The sun was piercingly bright, which only made the shadows within the ruined keep seem more ominous.

From the road that approached the gates of the keep, Ravensmuir would not appear damaged, for the curtain wall remained mostly intact. From this vantage point, Murdoch having ridden across the fields, Isabella could see that the wall was a mere facade. One tower yet pointed at the sky, its windows as dark as midnight, and the rest of the once majestic keep lay in piles of tumbled stones.

Murdoch rode Zephyr through the gates, where once a sturdy portcullis would have blocked the path. Alexander had had the smith remove the portcullis and install it at Kinfairlie, for it was strong and there was little to defend at Ravensmuir any more. Once through the portal, Isabella could see only the sea stretching to the horizon in every direction. The great hall was collapsed to one side, the stables shaky on the far side of the bailey. The land fell into great pits, the turf broken and dark hollows visible.

“Once there were caverns,” Isabella said. “An entire network of them that wound beneath the keep and led down to a secret harbor by the sea. When the spriggan Darg challenged Rosamunde and Tynan over the ownership of the relics, the caverns collapsed.”

“How?”

“I am not certain. Rosamunde is reluctant to dwell upon it. She gave us only the bare details.” Isabella swallowed. “It must have been terrifying.”

Murdoch nodded. “But that was how your uncle Tynan died?”

“It was the last time he was seen.” Isabella shuddered. “No one dared to descend into the ruin to seek his body.”

Murdoch dismounted, his manner thoughtful, then lifted her down from the saddle. Isabella glanced up at that one tower, unable to keep herself from looking for the ravens even though she knew she would not see them.

Ravensmuir seemed ghostly to her, but a vestige of what it once had been. She felt new grief at the loss of Tynan, and regretted again that Malcolm had chosen to leave. When she had been a child, Ravensmuir had been so wondrous and now it was abandoned. Even so, the old keep had a strange sense about it, as if unseen persons held their breath and watched what she and Murdoch would do.

Perhaps it was Tynan’s ghost.

The spriggans’ path led directly into the largest opening in the earth. It looked as if it might have been a portal in the hall, one that had sunk several feet into the ground. Isabella peered into the darkness and discerned a passage. When she straightened, she saw her concerns echoed in Murdoch’s eyes.

“How stable is the ground?” he asked, glancing over the ruin.

“It has not moved, by all accounts, since that day. And truly, before that, Ravensmuir stood for several hundred years.” Isabella bit her lip, knowing she had to give voice to her fears. “Are we wise to descend into this cavern to challenge spriggans over relics? Others have fared badly in this.”

Their gazes met for a long moment and Isabella saw that Murdoch shared her trepidation. “I understand the risk, but have little choice,” he said finally, just as Isabella had feared he would. “But I must try to leave some good reminder of my reprieve in this mortal world. I must try to regain the relic.”

“You could die, as Tynan did.”

“I will die in less than a fortnight, my Isabella, unless we break the curse. I cannot believe that shirking this task will do it.” His lips thinned. “I have less to lose than you, and I sense that I have everything to gain.”

Isabella nodded agreement. “I wish I knew exactly what had happened. The spriggans seem so small. Mischievous, to be sure, but not dangerous.”

Murdoch kissed her knuckles. “No doubt, like all the Fae, they do not care to be vexed or challenged.” Isabella nodded, recalling the storm of the previous night well enough. Murdoch winked at her. “I shall be polite beyond belief.”

It was clear he meant to go alone. Isabella knew this choice was sensible, but she rebelled against it all the same.

Of what merit would her life be without Murdoch? Though Rosamunde had survived and loved again, Isabella could not believe the same would happen to her.

She knew that Rosamunde would not have stepped away from Tynan on that day, even if she had known the outcome of her venture into the caverns.

And with that realization, Isabella’s decision was made.

Meanwhile, Murdoch left the reins cast over Zephyr’s saddle and rubbed the steed’s ears. “Ensure your own welfare, my old friend,” he said to the horse and Isabella saw again his protectiveness toward those beneath his hand. “I would not tether you, lest the earth shift again.”

Murdoch drew his sword then and strode toward the dark opening. Isabella was fast behind him. He bounced slightly on his feet, testing the soil. “It seems to be strong enough, for the moment. Perhaps it has settled to a new balance.” He glanced her way and his eyes began to twinkle before she could even argue her case. “I had thought to bid you farewell, my Isabella, but I see I would only waste my breath in insisting that you remain behind.”

“You would,” she said with resolve and he laughed.

Murdoch offered his hand to her. Isabella slipped her hand into his grip and they stepped forward together into the darkness.

Surely it was her imagination that she heard a man whisper softly behind her. She could make no sense of his single word, even though she glanced back at the sound.

“Three,” was all he said.

Murdoch apparently did not hear the utterance, for he continued onward, showing a confidence Isabella wanted to echo. “We should have brought a candle,” he murmured as the shadows closed around them.

“It would have blown out,” Isabella replied. “Either immediately, or as soon as we relied upon it. It is better thus.” She ran her hands over the walls, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows. She had not been within Ravensmuir’s caverns enough to recognize this passageway, especially as it was ruined. For a moment, her confidence faltered, then she heard the spriggans.

She looked up at Murdoch. “They have gone down, toward the sea.”

“Of course,” he muttered, then winked as if to reassure her. They stepped forward as one, feeling their way step by step into the cold embrace of Ravensmuir’s shattered caverns. The darkness closed around them and Isabella shivered. She felt her way along the wall, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Murdoch was just ahead of her.

“There was a grand staircase,” she whispered, then Murdoch pulled her to a halt.

“First step,” he said. She moved beside him, testing the path ahead with her foot. He was right.

“The steps were broad and even, carved from the rock.”

“They might not be so any longer.” With that warning, Murdoch began to descend the stairs, his other hand trailing along the wall. Just as Isabella recalled, the air became steadily cooler and more damp, and she caught her breath when she smelled the sea. She could hear the waves, too, and was relieved that the passageway might be clear the entire way.

She would have told Murdoch as much, but he froze suddenly and his grip tightened on her hand.

Isabella halted, then she heard the song of the spriggans.

“Kings and villains, rogues and thanes; all have come to thieve again. They take the spoils not theirs to claim, they steal and snatch, then leave again. Gold and silver, gems and jewels, do these intruders think us fools?”

Who were they worried about?

“There!” Murdoch whispered, pointing to a glimmer of gold just ahead. Isabella could see the silhouettes of the spriggans as they hauled their prizes through a crack in the rubble. By the time they reached the place, the spriggans had disappeared but a glow came through the crack. Murdoch pulled away some loose stones, they exchanged a glance, and Isabella slipped through the gap. When Murdoch had climbed through the space and stood behind her, she pointed at a golden glow far ahead.

Murdoch gripped her hand and she knew he was thinking of other Fae portals, like the one of the Elphine Queen and the one at the cottage. The smith’s knife could not have been driven into the stone underfoot. Why had the smith taken it back? He must have believed they no longer needed it.

“Do not eat,” Murdoch murmured.

“Do not drink,” Isabella agreed. She was well aware that his hand was cold, colder than it should have been, and she would not think of losing him in this place.

“And never look into their eyes,” they said in unison, then crossed the threshold as one. They halted together, astonished by the sight before them.

They had stepped into a cavern filled with riches. It was not a room of small dimensions, and it was stacked with gold and silver, gems and relics. There were half a dozen oil lanterns lit, each one in itself a prize of workmanship. The flames flickered only a little, the golden light making the contents of the chamber look more splendid. Spriggans swarmed over the piles like rats, muttering as they counted and rearranged in what seemed to be an ongoing inventory.

One spriggan faced them both, its feet braced against the ground and its eyes narrowed.

“Darg?” Isabella asked and the spriggan spat at the floor before them with an animosity unexpected.

“Thieves,” the spriggan charged.

“I am no thief,” Murdoch insisted, his tone reasonable “I come to regain the prize my father bought fairly.” He indicated the treasure. “His coin is probably also here.”

Darg glared at him. “Save your greed for another’s hoard, for this gold will grace but one queen’s board. We tithe again, against our will. Tithe to a second, we never will. Cede to mortals? That will take, a force far greater than you can make.”

Darg was a small but sinewy creature, undoubtedly much stronger than it appeared. Isabella guessed that it would not fight fairly, and wondered how they might outwit it.

Murdoch seemed intent upon keeping it talking.

“To whom do you tithe? The Elphine Queen?”

“The very same! For she is regent to all we name. Her claim, though we did try, cannot any longer be denied.” The spriggan spat again on the ground. “The other comes with greed in his eye. He will not have a share, and so say I.”

Murdoch eased closer to the spriggan, leaving Isabella behind him. He crouched down before the ugly creature, his manner amiable. “Who is the other?”

“Finvarra from across the sea! King of the Daoine Sidhe so is he. He plays chess with the Elphine Queen, but we see the truth of his scheme. ’Tis gold he wants, our gold for sure—we hide it deep so ’tis secure.”

“I seek only my father’s relic, rightfully his own. What use have you for the hand of the Magdalene?”

“It was ours once and is ours again,” Darg snarled. “And woe to any who make a claim. Gathered for years, counted and stacked, our hoard ensures we know no lack.”

“How so?” he asked. “You cannot eat it, and I will wager that you do not sell it.”

He glanced around, as if acquainting himself with their accomplishment. Isabella was impressed by his composure. So far as she could see, the only way out was the way they had entered. “It is an impressive collection. Did you move all of this here, just this past night?”

“Collected for years and hidden away, gold ensures the light of day. We give at will, or snatch it back, the better to see we have no lack.”

“So, you might grant a token from this hoard to one who fed you, for example?”

“It has happened before, I will not deny, but do not think you can seize a prize.” The spriggan darted backward, scrambling toward the pile of treasure. Murdoch and Isabella exchanged a glance of trepidation, then Isabella had an idea.

“Elizabeth always noted that you had a fondness for ale,” she cried after the spriggan, noting how its eyes brightened.

It halted and turned. “Have you ale?”

“Not with us,” Isabella said, but Murdoch spoke before she could continue.

“I left it with my horse, in the bailey above.” He smiled. “I would trade you ale for the hand of the Magdalene.”

The spriggan fidgeted with indecision, glancing between its fellows and the mortal pair. Suddenly it scampered toward Murdoch then whispered. “How much have you?”

“Only enough for one,” Murdoch admitted, as if regretful.

The spriggan hissed. “I do like a sip of ale. It warms the blood, makes one feel hale. It prompts merriment and joy, then sadness when ’tis alloyed.”

It thought, bit its lip, then raced toward the glittering hoard. It returned a moment later, waving the reliquary that Isabella recalled from years before. The reliquary for the bones of the Magdalene’s hand was almost as long as the spriggan was tall, and it was clearly heavy, for Darg struggled with the burden of it.

Murdoch reached out to take it, but the spriggan snatched it out of his reach. “Nay, nay, not near so quick! Bring first the ale, to prove no trick.” It pointed at Isabella. “She stays, you go to fetch it true, and hasten lest I not wait for you.”

“Surrender to me the chalice and platter from Kinfairlie’s chapel, as well,” Isabella added. “For that was not yours to take.”

“A fine price you barter for your ale, I hope it does fulfill your tale.” The spriggan kept a grip on the reliquary, calling to another spriggan in some kind of gibberish. The other hauled out a platter and chalice wrought of silver. “I but show the tithe we will pay,” Darg cried to the other spriggan, clearly lying about its intent. “The better to keep evil at bay.” The other spriggan did not appear to be convinced by this, but at Darg’s snarl, it disappeared again, leaving the chalice and platter on the floor.

Darg turned a bright gaze upon Murdoch, its expectation clear. Murdoch turned and gave Isabella an intent look. He pivoted as if to leave, but she knew he had a scheme. Darg chuckled to itself in satisfaction, clearly pleased by the prospect of ale in its belly.

“Isabella!” a man roared from the passageway behind them. Murdoch froze and looked at Isabella.

“Alexander!” she whispered.

“More mortals!” Darg hissed and began to drag the reliquary back toward the golden hoard. Isabella and Murdoch leapt after the spriggan in unison. Murdoch seized the slippery little creature, grimacing as it bit and fought. Isabella grabbed the reliquary and held it tightly.

Darg let loose a yell of astonishing volume. “Thieves!” it cried, and swarms of spriggans erupted from the pile of treasure, teeth bared, then raced toward them.

“Run!” Murdoch cried, giving Isabella a push, and she did exactly that. She glanced back when she had one foot on the crevasse that led back to the passageway and saw that he had drawn his sword against dozens of attacking spriggans.

She had to get the relic out of the caverns. Although she wanted to aid him, she knew she had to ensure that his quest was fulfilled. Perhaps she could entrust Alexander with the relic, then come back to help Murdoch. She squirmed through the narrow space, sheltering the relic with her cloak, that thought bright in her mind.

“My tithe,” the Elphine Queen said, much to Isabella’s astonishment. She reached for the relic, but Isabella held it more tightly to her chest.

“You have had sufficient tithe from Murdoch!”

The Elphine Queen smiled. “It is for me to say what is sufficient.” She did not snatch at the relic, to Isabella’s relief, but stepped back and gestured to her surroundings.

Isabella was shocked. She stared at the frozen figures in the passageway, unable to believe that her family had given chase. Alexander stood there, along with Rhys and Elizabeth. Stewart was there, along with Gavin and another young boy. They were all motionless, as if struck to stone.

But they blinked and watched, evidence that they were aware of what occurred around them.

A chill ran down Isabella’s spine.

“And so the choice is yours, Isabella,” the Elphine Queen said. Isabella fought the urge to look into her eyes. “Surrender Murdoch to me and save these sorry souls, or become like them, trapped in the caverns of Ravensmuir forever. I hear the spriggans are vexed. It may not be long before they lose their tempers and bring more ruin to this place.” She smiled coldly and put out her hand for the relic. “Choose.”

* * *

Murdoch had to keep the spriggans from injuring Isabella. Murdoch knew he might die in this cavern, but he might die anyway. All the better to do so while ensuring both Isabella’s escape and the retrieval of the relic for Seton Manor. He intended to retrieve the platter and chalice from Kinfairlie’s chapel, as well.

He sliced down the first spriggan that assaulted him and was shocked by the loudness of the bellow it emitted. Overhead, the rock trembled. He attacked the spriggans with vigor as they surrounded him, snapping and snarling, looking more like rats with every passing moment. He was horrified as they began to crawl up his boots, and shouted himself when one slipped into the top of his boot and bit his leg.

Murdoch roared with anger. He sliced two of the vermin in half and black blood stained his sword. Another pair were stabbed, back to back. At the same time, four leapt onto his shoulders and bit him around the neck and ears. Another slipped inside his collar, making him dance as he tried to work it out from under his tabard. He could feel its claws as it crawled over his skin and he knew it bit him. Murdoch slammed his back against the wall, hoping to crush it. The force of his impact made the stone overhead tremble again, and a rumble began at a distance.

When the spriggan in his shirt squeaked, Murdoch made to crush it again.

“He bears the marks of the Elphine Queen!” the spriggan cried, its voice slightly muffled. The swarm of them around Murdoch’s feet froze. “Injure him not, lest she turn mean. We know her passion for her prize—injuring him will cost our lives! One token lost is small prize to pay, lest we do not survive the day.”

The spriggans clustered around his feet stared at him with mingled awe and horror. Then they turned as one, racing toward the pile of treasure and the dark nooks on the far side of the chamber.

While he was still amazed, the spriggan tumbled out of the bottom of Murdoch’s shirt. It shook itself, regarded him with horror, and fled toward the pile of treasure. He could not believe his luck, but then was shocked again when the spriggans changed shape. As they ran, they became rats in truth, whiskers growing out of their cheeks as their noses became long and pointed. Tails erupted from their buttocks and their clothing disappeared like leaves in an autumn wind. They sprouted brown fur and small pink ears, their eyes gleaming like jet as they glanced back at him.

And then they were gone, the hoard glittering in the lantern light.

Murdoch strode toward the abandoned chalice and platter, surprised by the weight of the cup alone. It was heavy silver, beautifully embellished. He sheathed his sword and admired the workmanship of the chalice before bending to pick up the platter.

Murdoch was awed to hold such a treasure in his hands.

“One of my favorites,” a man’s voice murmured in his ear.

Murdoch spun but there was no one beside him. The hair prickled on the back of his neck.

“Byzantine craftsmanship,” the voice continued. “The purity of the silver reveals its origins, as does the ornamentation.”

Murdoch turned slowly, scanning the chamber. He felt his eyes narrow as he became aware of a rustling shadow at his side, gradually becoming more substantial. When the chamber chilled, Murdoch knew he had been joined by one of the dead.

The shade smiled. “My father gave this as a gift to my mother, when Kinfairlie’s chapel was rebuilt and reconsecrated. The entire village had been destroyed before she was born, but he saw her legacy restored.” The shade touched the lip of the chalice with a shadowy fingertip. “My parents and I shared an affection for sterling.”

Murdoch could not help but wonder. “When was this?”

“1372. Not so long ago.”

“And your parents, are they also in this cavern?”

The shade shook his head. “I abide here alone, trapped between three worlds—ours, theirs and the next.”

Murdoch did not have to guess whose world was ‘theirs.’

“Ravensmuir exists at a junction, one where the unwary can become lost and the wise can move beyond their situations.” He smiled and offered his hand. “I was Tynan Lammergeier.”

Murdoch took a step back, for this man had not died so long ago. Tynan had auctioned the relics just three years before—and he had died in the collapse of these caverns, according to Isabella. “Laird of Ravensmuir.”

The ghost nodded, his gaze trailing to the pile of treasure. “The seller of the hoard. The laird who chose property over love. The man who learned too much too late.” He bent down and retrieved a silver ring from the pile, plucking it out of the medley with such surety that he must have known precisely where it was located. He set it on the palm of his hand, stared at it for a long moment, then smiled sadly. “And so I have haunted these caverns, yearning for the opportunity to redress the balance and atone for my error.”

“How?”

“I was not sure until this day. But there is one who would speak with you and I can hear him.”

Murdoch’s throat clenched. Surely not?

But Tynan continued. “Should I facilitate that, I may begin rest in peace myself.” He turned and gestured to another shade in the grotto, one whose back was bent with age.

Murdoch recognized his father immediately.

The old man appeared to be bewildered, and he looked around the cavern with obvious uncertainty. Murdoch had time to worry about his reception, that his father would accuse him just as his brother had done. Then his father’s gaze fell upon Murdoch and his face lit with joy.

“Lad!” he said in a voice that had once been a roar and now was a whisper. “I knew you could not be dead, after all!” He caught Murdoch in an embrace. It was a strange sensation, like being surrounded by the chill of a shadow, but Murdoch embraced his father in return.

“Duncan said you were certain I was dead.”

“Until I died myself and could not find you.” His father straightened and held Murdoch at arm’s length, surveying him with satisfaction. “You have seen much and learned more.”

“I retrieved the relic. It will be back at Seton Manor by Eastertide.”

His father smiled. “I knew I could rely upon you. I am sorry that I did not listen to you sooner.” He shook his head. “There was too much said between us, lad.”

“Mother said you oft did not care for the reflection in the mirror,” Murdoch reminded him. “Nor always did I.”

His father grinned. “’Tis not such a burden for a man to be stalwart in his views. Your mother calls it stubborn, but I see such resolve as a boon in most cases.” He winked. “In the courting of a maiden’s affection, for example, it stands a man most true.”

“Yes, it does,” Murdoch agreed, and his father was well pleased by that implication.

“Be good to the lady in question and she will return your love a thousandfold,” he said. They embraced again and his father whispered in his ear. “Women are treasures in this way.”

Indeed. Murdoch noticed that his father seemed even less substantial than he had. He glanced up and met Tynan’s steady gaze.

“Only I survive in this place,” that man confided. “This is but a brief visit.”

“Your mother will be glad I saw you,” Murdoch’s father said when he straightened. He studied Murdoch, as if Murdoch faded to his view, and spoke more quickly. “She has been chiding me these years for dying when there was too much left said between us.”

“Give her my love, Father.”

“Aye. And know she sends hers to you.”

Murdoch saw the tears well in his father’s eyes just before the vision of him faded. He caught his breath and looked around, but Tynan was gone, as well. He made to lift the chalice and platter that belonged in Kinfairlie’s chapel, then heard a whisper again in his ear.

“Isabella is named for my mother,” Tynan murmured as Murdoch felt a weight fall into his purse. “This should adorn her finger now.” Murdoch reached into his purse and found the heavy silver ring that Tynan had plucked from the pile of gems. He had no time to study it, only to replace it in his purse, for the rock overhead rumbled.

It was past time to flee.

* * *

Alexander could watch the horror unfold but could do nothing to aid Isabella.

He and Rhys had returned to Kinfairlie, only to have Elizabeth insist that the spriggans had gone to Ravensmuir, and further that Isabella and Murdoch would be there. He had stood no chance in leaving Elizabeth behind, and once she reminded him that only she could see the Fae, he did not want to.

They had encountered an older man and two squires on the road to Ravensmuir, and this man, Stewart, insisted he knew Murdoch and rode to that man’s aid. It had made sense to progress together, the better to resolve the situation.

It had been with some trepidation that they had descended into the caverns, and now Alexander’s fears were rewarded. All of them stood like pillars of salt. It was no consolation that in this place and this moment, he could indeed see the Fae.

Isabella was held captive by a woman who could not be mortal. Her hair was as as black as a raven’s wing and it flowed over her shoulders to pool on the floor. She bade Isabella choose between them and Murdoch, and Alexander knew not what to wish for.

The astonishing thing was that this dark lady held a dreadful orb in her hand, one that looked to be a sphere of crystal with a heart within it. That heart pulsing weakly, and Alexander could see that it was turning black. It was as if the heart rotted away, and he wondered what the token meant. Even in its feeble state, the heart emitted a red light which illuminated the cavern.

Murdoch stepped through the crevasse, just as Isabella had done before him. He looked triumphant and to Alexander’s relief, he carried the silver chalice and platter that belonged in Kinfairlie’s chapel. There was dark blood on his boots and dripping from the scabbard of his sword, and Alexander could see bite marks on his neck. If he had had the power, he would have shuddered.

As it was, Alexander felt a quiver of recognition pass through the group. Then Murdoch glanced up, his horror at the sight of them completely clear. His gaze darted to Isabella and he made to step toward her.

The dark lady held up that orb and Murdoch’s footsteps faltered. It seemed that he weakened at the sight. There were marks all over his body, marks like those on the flesh of the dark lady, and his flesh turned to a pale grey as Alexander watched. Murdoch became insubstantial, and he was unsteady on his feet.

Though Alexander had been vexed with this man, he could not imagine that any soul deserved this fate.

Murdoch looked at Isabella, and there was no doubt of his affection for Alexander’s sister. “You have enchanted her,” he said to the woman, no real question in his voice.

The dark queen smiled. “Would you have me take her, as well? You might have a pet of your own that way.”

“No! You must release her!”

“I do not have to do any such thing.” Her gaze hardened. “End the game, Murdoch. Surrender to me now and I might spare her.”

Alexander understood that Murdoch had borne some curse from this woman. He eyed the weakened heart and had a good idea of whose heart it mirrored, though he knew not how.

Dark sorcery.

“You will spare her. You will release all of them, now.” Murdoch stepped forward, his expression grim. “I will exchange myself for your captive. Take me again, Elphine Queen, upon your word that they all go free.”

“He chooses me!” The dark queen’s eyes shone with triumph. She flung Isabella aside and snatched for Murdoch, but suddenly there was an obstacle between them. A bearded man stepped into her path, holding up a hand. There was a similarity between him and the dark lady, for his beard flowed like a river and his eyes were as fathomless as her own. His raiment had a similar sparkle about it, although hers sparkled like starlight and his gleamed like the radiant sun.

“You!” she spat. “Out of my way. He surrendered willingly.”

The man smiled and held up three fingers. “No. The old charm yet holds. He committed three selfless deeds and is already free of your spell.”

“No! He did not!”

The bearded man counted off Murdoch’s feats. “He saw to the welfare of a horse, at risk to himself. He defended the back of his squire in taking that horse to market, again at risk to himself. And he trades his own life for that of his beloved, that she might go free.”

“No!” cried the woman. “Seeing to the horse and defending his squire are two sides of the same coin. I see merely two deeds. He is yet mine.”

The man smiled. “What good fortune, then that I count four. His choice to descend into the known danger of this place to see his family property returned is another, for he knows the tale of Tynan’s death.”

The Elphine Queen fumed.

The other man slanted a glance at Elizabeth that filled Alexander with dread, then disappeared in a flash of light.

“No!” the lady raged, but there was a crack as loud as thunder. Rock rumbled overhead, dust beginning to fall as the cavern shifted. Alexander could hear stones beginning to move and was certain they would all be swept into the sea.

The lady screamed as the orb in her hand cracked like an egg. It split open and the heart within disappeared. Murdoch fell to his knees and Alexander feared the worst. But when he looked up at Isabella, his pallor had disappeared and the marks on his skin had faded. It was clear his heart pounded with new vigor.

Alexander had a moment to believe Murdoch hale, then that man cried out in pain. He tore at his chausses, his horror evident as he exposed a festering wound that ran the length of his thigh. It was putrid with infection, as sure a portent of death as there could be. Murdoch looked up in a daze, his eyes glittering with fever and his face suddenly flushed.

“You could have had your every desire,” the lady hissed. “You have your choice, mortal, though you will not have long to savor it. I return you as I found you.” Her eyes glittered as she smiled. “You see that, in the end, I will always have my due. I do not like to lose.”

With a flash of light, she disappeared. Murdoch tumbled to the ground, unconscious, and Isabella cried out as she fell to her knees beside him. The dust was falling in earnest amongst them, gravel and small stones mixed into the cascade.

Alexander leapt forward, freed from the spell that had kept him motionless, and seized Isabella’s arm. “Run for the bailey!” he told her. “Run with Elizabeth and get to safety.”

“But Murdoch!” she protested.

“Take the relic. Take the cup and chalice. I will see him to safety.”

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. She touched Alexander’s shoulder and pushed the chalice into Elizabeth’s hands. The fair-haired squire of Murdoch’s grabbed the platter, and Rhys lifted Murdoch’s shoulders. Alexander took Murdoch’s other side, the older man who had accompanied the knight grasping his boots. The dark-haired squire seized his master’s sword, and cleared rubble as they hastened out of the collapsing caverns.

* * *

Once again, Ravensmuir rumbled and once again, the caverns collapsed. Isabella pushed Elizabeth out into the light, the ground shaking beneath their feet. “The horses!” she cried. “Get them beyond the curtain wall where the land is solid.”

Elizabeth ran, Murdoch’s squire fast behind her. Isabella could not leave until she knew for certain that everyone was safe. The ground heaved and shuddered, and she gasped as the rock began to cascade toward the sea.

“We are here!” Alexander cried as they lunged over the last of the rubble. The men carried Murdoch between them, his wound terrifying Isabella with its severity. Gavin stumbled out of the shadows last, but Isabella caught his arm and hauled him toward safety.

Ravensmuir’s bailey shook.

Rock grumbled.

They had no sooner reached the curtain wall than the entire point of land fell into the sea in an avalanche. It made a ferocious noise as the rock crackled and splintered and fell, then splashed into the ocean.

Isabella held the reliquary tightly against her chest, thinking of what a near miss they had had. It was barely midday, the sky clear and the sun high overhead. The wind was utterly still, for the first time in weeks. She looked down at the massive tumble of rocks now in the sea.

“And so falls Merlyn’s pride, Tynan’s bane and Malcolm’s legacy,” Alexander said quietly and Isabella paused beside him to consider the wreckage.

“I hope the spriggans were not killed,” Elizabeth said, standing on Isabella’s other side. “They are vexing creatures, but still I would not wish them dead like this.”

“They might have escaped through the portal to the realm of the Fae,” Isabella said, wanting only to cheer her sister.

Elizabeth brightened. “I shall hope that they did.”

Isabella could only wonder where they would erupt into the mortal sphere again.

“There were so many of them in recent days, as if they gathered for some purpose. Perhaps they have embarked upon it,” Elizabeth concluded with a nod. It was clear the idea consoled her, though Isabella would be glad to never see a spriggan again.

Alexander slid his arm over Isabella’s shoulders then. “I am sorry,” he said, giving her an intent look. “I misunderstood Murdoch Seton.”

“He gave you cause to do so,” Isabella said, taking a deep breath. “But he had little choice.”

“I see that now. I see too that you love him, that he loves you, and that he fights to live.” Her brother squeezed her shoulders tightly. “Come. Let us take him to Kinfairlie. If any healers can save him, ’twill be you and Eleanor together.”

Isabella took one look at Murdoch’s wound and wanted to cry. “I am not certain...”

“You must believe,” Alexander whispered with heat. “For if you have not the faith that you can heal him, then you will not. So it is that we give life to our dreams.”

* * *

Despite Alexander’s conviction, Isabella knew from Eleanor’s initial reaction that this battle would not be easily won. Still, Eleanor was not readily daunted. With Isabella as her right hand, she called for fire and she called for water. She lanced that wound and pushed the toxin from it. She bathed it and wrapped it in herbs, and merely a few hours later, they repeated the sequence again.

When evening fell, Isabella insisted that Eleanor rest, for she was clearly weary. She did as Eleanor had done, all the night long, knowing that she would not sleep until Murdoch was recovered.

Morning’s light revealed little difference. Indeed, the wound seemed to breed disease with startling speed. The wound was clean, but deep, but his fever raged and the pus was endless. He did not awaken, not once.

Eleanor took one look at him in the morning, and frowned at Isabella’s tidings. “It will be thirst that kills him,” she said grimly. “Unless we can turn the tide.”

All the day, they labored as one, and not a whit of difference could either discern. They tried to trickle water into his mouth, but his lips were so firmly clenched that he might have willed to go without. His hands were clenched into fists, and Isabella wondered what battle waged within his thoughts.

And so that night passed as the first, and the second day as the first. His breathing changed, for it became more shallow, and his pulse weakened. His skin became more pale and those lines were more clearly visible than before.

As they sat vigil, Isabella told Eleanor all that she knew, and the older woman’s manner grew more quiet. They both remained with him for the third night, as Eleanor would not leave him. His breath has begun to rattle in his chest.

“You should sleep,” Eleanor said to Isabella without meeting her gaze. “Go upstairs and sleep. I shall do all that can be done here.”

Isabella straightened, recognizing her mentor’s tone. “You think he will die this night.”

“I think you should not be here this night,” Eleanor said, her tone both firm and practical, her gaze fixed upon Murdoch. “You love him. Think of him in the moment when he claimed your heart.”

“I will not leave his side!”

“What you witness this night might haunt you forevermore,” Eleanor said quietly. “I think only of your welfare, Isabella.”

“I know. But I will not leave him.” Isabella fell to her knees beside the other woman. “Would you leave Alexander?”

Eleanor smiled fleetingly. “No, I would not. You are right in that.” She reached out and squeezed Isabella’s hand.

Isabella felt that her heart was in her throat and that she could not take a breath. She did not wish to see Murdoch die, nor did she wish to abandon him. Would the Elphine Queen claim him all the same? She blinked back her tears.

Only to find a bearded man in glowing raiment crouch down beside her. “A feeble victory,” he murmured, his expression one of concern. “Yet again, her sorcery surprises me.”

“Can you not aid him?” Isabella asked, aware that Eleanor looked askance at her.

“I do my best,” Eleanor whispered, clearly not seeing the Fae king.

“And I have done mine,” Finvarra added with a smile. He reached out and let his hand hover over the wound, grimacing at whatever he discerned. He flicked a glance at Isabella as he withdrew his hand. “What was it that he risked so much to regain?”

“The hand of the Magdalene,” Isabella said, not truly thinking about such mundane details. Surely Murdoch could not die.

“The hand of the Magdalene?” Eleanor glanced up. “Is it not reputed to heal?”

Isabella gasped. “It is!”

Eleanor shrugged and pushed to her feet, Moira there immediately to rub her back. “I am not much for such remedies, but it cannot hurt at this point.” She turned and raised her voice. “Anthony! Will you send word to Father Malachy, that he should come and bring the relic destined for Seton Manor?”

“Of course, my lady,” the castellan said, bowing deeply.

But Isabella had already fled to the village to do that very thing.

* * *

Murdoch found himself in a dark forest, one filled with fog and menace. It seemed an endless wood, for he could find no path out of it, nor discern any place where the trees thinned and the sky was brighter. He wandered endlessly, uncertain how far he had walked, where he was or where he arrived. There was neither day nor night in that forest, just an overwhelming shadow of grey.

And silence. Silence unbroken.

There was a deep frost claiming his body, an ice that claimed his sinews and froze his very bones. It emanated from his thigh, from the blow that had changed everything in his life. He was delirious and he knew it. He hoped only that it did not begin to snow.

There was a river in that endless forest, its surface like a black mirror, and when he bathed in it or drank from it, he caught glimpses of people he had known and loved. They were insubstantial, unaware of him, passing like mist in the wind.

He had only just realized that they were all dead, when the fire touched his body. It seared him like a raging inferno, shooting through his veins like Greek fire and exploding in his chest. He was certain that flames sprouted from his fingertips, that sparks danced from his hair, that his skin itself crackled and burned.

But when Murdoch opened his eyes, there was sunshine. Golden sunlight spilled over him, warming him with its caress. The forest was gone, the darkness was banished, and his Isabella, tears running down her cheeks, leaned toward him.

“Murdoch!” she whispered in wonder. “You awaken!”

He saw a blond woman behind her. On his other side was a priest, one who held the reliquary destined for Seton Manor, and that treasure seemed to glow with unholy light.

“He awakens!” the blond woman cried and Murdoch heard footsteps.

Behind the woman appeared the Laird of Kinfairlie, a small boy on his shoulders, and Rhys, the cursedly effective Rhys, another young boy on his shoulders. Rhys’ lady stood behind him, their babe in her arms. There were two other young women, who must have been Isabella’s other sisters were there, one with auburn hair and one with hair of ebony. Murdoch saw Stewart, that man’s lined face alight, and Gavin gave a hoot of joy beside him.

They were all smiling at him, as if he had come back from the dead.

Murdoch tried to move and to speak, only then realizing how weak his body had become. “My Isabella,” he whispered, and she lifted a cup of water to his lips. “My Isabella, there is a silver ring in my purse. I would be honored if you would be my wife and wear that ring upon your hand.” He took another sip of water with her aid as Gavin hastened to fetch his purse. “I would ask your brother for his blessing, but I believe your uncle has already given us one.”

“And I would wed you either way,” Isabella whispered as she kissed his cheek. She trailed one hand down his face and he knew he was a sight, but if she could look upon him with such favor in this state, that she must love him. “Your eyes are blue again.”

“Because my Isabella healed me,” he said. “Just as I always knew she would.” And he caught her close, pressing a kiss into her hair, profoundly glad that she would be his Isabella for all his days and nights.

Chapter Sixteen

The wedding service was all Isabella might have dreamed it could be.

It was the first of February, the morn after the new moon, when she and Murdoch were to exchange their vows. The morning dawned crisp and clear, the sky cloudless with nary a breath of wind. Moira pronounced the weather a good portent for the match, although Isabella needed no such warranty.

Kinfairlie’s keep had been noisy these past weeks in preparation for Isabella’s nuptials. Madeline and Rhys were already present, of course, which was fortunate for they lived at the greatest distance. Vivienne and Erik had journeyed south from Blackleith, their young daughters racing through Kinfairlie’s hall each day until they dropped with exhaustion. Roland was enchanted with his cousins, and—even better—Eleanor’s stomach had finally settled.

Alexander had sent word to Malcolm and to Ross, though he had warned Isabella they would not be able to leave their employ as mercenaries for her nuptials. She wondered whether Malcolm would be distressed or relieved to learn of the fate of Ravensmuir.

The only omission was Murdoch’s own brother Duncan. Stewart had ridden to Seton Manor with all haste, but he had not yet returned. Isabella resolved to appreciate all she had and not worry about whatever she did not. Murdoch was healed and they would be wed. Indeed, she had need of nothing more.

On the joyous day, Isabella donned a new kirtle, one wrought of palest green and lavishly embroidered with gold. It was far more elaborate than was usually her taste, but this was a day for splendor. Even better, it was a gift from the busy fingers of her sisters, and she felt dressed in their love.

Eleanor had given the bride a new crimson belt and slippers from her own trunk of treasures, their workmanship exotic and rich. Vivienne had favored Isabella with a new linen chemise, one made of cloth so fine that it might have been gossamer. Isabella had her hair braided by Elizabeth, who had a rare talent for the task, and stood tall when her sisters were done.

When Isabella descended to the hall in all her finery, she had eyes only for Murdoch. He stood beside Alexander, so tall and handsome that Isabella’s heart began to pound in earnest. He had healed so quickly and so well that even Eleanor was amazed, and he was every measure the knight she had first glimpsed.

He stepped forward, his eyes sparkling, and took her hand in his. “Still you will have me?” he teased and Isabella laughed.

“Yes!” She leaned closer to whisper for his ears alone. “I do love you so, Murdoch.”

He kissed her hand, his eyes gleaming. “And I love you, my Isabella.” He winked. “With all my heart, to be sure.” He grinned when she smiled in surprise at his jest, then tucked her hand into his elbow.

They walked together through the hall, the company standing to each side to let them pass. Alexander and Eleanor fell into step behind them, then all the other wedded couples in the family followed. Annelise and Elizabeth walked together, holding hands with the children. They formed a procession and Isabella’s heart pounded with every step.

Not only did she go to pledge herself to the man she loved, but all those in Kinfairlie’s bounds came to wish her well. The route to the chapel was lined with people, people Isabella had known for years or even for all her life, people who came to share in her happiness on this day. They wore their best garb, too, and they bowed as she approached them, many of them calling good wishes to her.

First in the hall itself were those of Kinfairlie’s household. Anthony stood at the fore of this group, and he smiled with pride as he bowed. Moira stood behind him, mopping away her tears even as she smiled, Vera fast beside her and sniffling, too.

Every maid and boy who worked within the hall had come, the line to Kinfairlie’s portal lined with cooks, sauce makers, and scullery girls. There were maids from the village who worked in the hall and the gardens, and the line stretched into the sunlight of the bailey. There were the gatekeepers, sentries, men-at-arms and guards, Owen the ostler and the stable boys, the armorer, the sheriff and the gamekeeper. The line flowed beyond Kinfairlie’s gates where the villagers of Kinfairlie awaited the procession, their faces filled with a joy that echoed Isabella’s own feelings.

The baker and his wife, Siobhan, with their healthy son, then the smith with his wife and apprentices. Isabella nodded to the miller and his son, Matthew, to Matthew’s wife, Ceara, who held their infant daughter, to Marjorie the alewife and Ellen the spinner. There were butchers and eelmongers, those who ploughed and those who worked silver, all had come to share Isabella’s happiness.

As the procession passed, those who had gathered fell into step behind. When Isabella and Murdoch reached the double portal of Kinfairlie’s chapel, Father Malachy awaited them in his robes. He smiled at Isabella and indicated the swelling company behind her with a nod. Isabella turned to face Murdoch and as he took her hands in his, she looked back, awed by the size of the crowd that gathered closer.

She was well-loved at Kinfairlie and this was the legacy of her family and her upbringing. It was a gift no one could ever take from her and one that she knew would glow in her heart forever. She turned to face Murdoch and smiled at him, certain that there was no less love in her future with this man.

She had never imagined that she might be so happy as this.

And their days together had only begun.

* * *

Murdoch was puzzled that he had not had a reply from his brother Duncan. Stewart had been dispatched to take word to Duncan of the message, and to return the relic to its rightful place in the treasury of the chapel at Seton Manor. Murdoch had hoped that Duncan might ride south to witness his nuptials, or that at least, his brother would send word welcoming Isabella to live at Seton Manor. He had hoped for a place in his brother’s household but as the days passed and there was neither Stewart’s return nor a missive, Murdoch began to fear that the rift between himself and Duncan would never be healed.

Alexander had discerned his worry and pried the truth from him. The Laird of Kinfairlie had offered Murdoch employ here at Kinfairlie, and given the lack of options, Murdoch had accepted with gratitude. He wished to take Isabella to Seton Manor, that she might see his home, but when the day of their marriage arrived with no word from Duncan, Murdoch wondered if the course was a wise one.

Had Stewart not arrived at Seton Manor?

Had Duncan not been pleased with the return of the relic? Alexander insisted it could not be so, and Murdoch wished to believe him. He was thinking on this day that they would go to Seton Manor, he and Isabella, that he could speak to Duncan himself. If his brother sent him away, then they would return to Kinfairlie. But Murdoch would hear the truth from Duncan’s own lips.

In this moment, though, he had no fear for the future. He had completed his quest. He stood with the lady he loved beyond all else, and she pledged herself to him for all time. There could be nothing wrong in a world in which Isabella’s hand was within his own, Murdoch was certain of it. He knew that no matter what obstacle they faced in future, they would overcome it with ease. They were stronger together than alone, and the fulfillment of his quest had forged an eternal bond between them.

He liked the ring that Tynan had given to him in the caverns of Kinfairlie, for it was heavy silver and beautifully embellished. The entire family had caught their breath at the sight of it and when he told the tale of it, Murdoch saw their relief at Tynan’s rest. They told him what they knew of the ring, and he thought it most fitting that his Isabella should wear the ring given by Merlyn to his Ysabella.

Murdoch slid it onto her finger before the priest, admiring the look of it upon her hand. He watched her as they made their vows to each other and welcomed the thunder of his heart as she pledged her troth to him alone.

Forever.

When the priest made his blessing, Murdoch impulsively kissed Isabella. This was met with much approval from the lady in question, whose sparkling gaze hinted that she too was anxious for their wedding night. The gathered company hooted and shouted with such approval that Isabella laughed aloud. Murdoch kissed her again and swung her around in his arms, much to the delight of all who watched.

Alexander raised a hand for silence. “There is one who would speak on this day, before we return to the hall to celebrate.”

“Who would speak?” Isabella asked. “Who would protest such merriment?”

Alexander cast her a smile. “One who would add to it, I expect.”

Murdoch could make no more sense of this than Isabella apparently did, and they turned as one to scan the crowd. Murdoch saw him then, his own brother walking closer even as he drew back his hood.

Stewart strode behind Duncan, smiling broadly. “We have been here these four days!” he shouted. “My lord Duncan wished to surprise you.”

“And surprised I am!” Murdoch replied, seeing his brother’s smile and knowing all was well. “This is my brother, Laird Duncan of Seton Manor!”

The assembly hollered and clapped in appreciation, even as Duncan caught Murdoch in a tight hug. “I feared you would not return,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I feared I had sent you to your death and that those words would haunt me for all my days and nights.”

“It is the love of two brothers that stands the test of time,” Murdoch insisted.

Duncan pulled back and there were tears in his eyes as he surveyed Murdoch. “I should never have doubted that you would not only succeed, but win another treasure on the journey.” He bowed to Isabella who blushed, but did not drop her gaze. “You always were one to exceed expectation.”

Murdoch dared to ask what he most wished to know. “I would bring my lady wife to Seton Manor, that she might see my home,” he said, his words thick. “If it suits you well, brother.”

“It suits me very well,” Duncan said. “And that is why I have brought you a gift for your nuptials.”

Murdoch frowned for he did not understand. Duncan, though, turned to the assembly and addressed them, his voice carrying to them all. “I thank you all for the good care you have given to my brother, and to the wife you have surrendered to his care. The love of a woman who is all I have heard Isabella to be, and the weight of her hand in his, is truly a prize for my brother to savor for the rest of his life. I see the fondness with which you regard this lady so, before Murdoch takes her to Seton Manor to live, I would tell you more of this man who has evidently claimed her heart.”

“We know all we need know of him, sir,” the smith said with vigor. “He is a man of valor and honor, and one who keeps his pledge.”

“He is, indeed,” Duncan said. “Though we are brothers, Murdoch and I have always been as different in nature as two men could be. When we were boys, I learned to read while he learned to ride. I studied with my tutors, learning Latin and the keeping of ledgers, while he trained for his spurs. Indeed, Murdoch became a knight with such uncommon ease that he might have been born one.”

The villagers of Kinfairlie applauded at this.

“But more than this, my brother has an understanding of the world that I do not. When our father faltered in his health and the fortunes of our home suffered, it was Murdoch who named the solution. It was Murdoch who urged my father to purchase from Tynan of Ravensmuir the hand of the Magdalene, to ensure that Seton Manor could become a place of pilgrimage. In old days, there was a well where people came to pray for cures and Murdoch believed that the relic would remind them of the power of that place, as well as buttress its strength. It was Murdoch who saw how to put coin in Seton Manor’s coffers, Murdoch who named the solution that would succeed.”

Duncan glanced downward. “It was Murdoch who rode to war to serve my father’s name and his honor, and it was Murdoch who my father wished to see one last time before he passed from this earth. My father and Murdoch were two of a kind, two sides of the same coin, two men who knew how to make their way in the world and who would defend all who relied upon them. I am the one so different from both of them, the one more inclined to prayer and contemplation, the one who would prefer to forget the world of men and heed only the voice of God.”

“He loved you,” Murdoch said softly and Duncan smiled.

“He did, but he did not understand me. And I doubt that I was the only one who wished you had been born the elder son.”

Murdoch dropped his gaze for his father had confided precisely thus to him, and it would be disloyal to his brother to say as much aloud.

“And so it is that the occasion of Murdoch’s wedding gives me the opportunity to set this matter to rights,” Duncan said. “For on this day, before all of you as witnesses, I surrender the seal of Seton Manor and its signet ring to the man who should be its laird.” He turned and pulled the signet ring from his finger and offered it to Murdoch, the smaller velvet sack that held the seal of the manor in his other hand. He smiled.

“But you cannot do this. It is your legacy...”

“It has been my burden, assumed out of duty. I am glad to surrender it to one who will be more capable than I might ever be.” Duncan pushed the ring on to Murdoch’s finger.

“But what of you? What will you do?”

Duncan smiled. “I shall depart this place on the morrow to follow my own vocation. I shall join the monastery of Kilgarrow, take my vows and enter the life of contemplation that has beckoned to me since I first learned to read.”

“Are you certain of this, Duncan?”

“More certain than I have been of any one thing in all my life.” Duncan glanced at Isabella and smiled. “As certain as you are of your bride.”

“That is no small measure,” Murdoch said, unable to keep the joy from surging through him. “I thank you!” He caught his brother close and hugged him tightly, fiercely glad that he had a home to offer to his Isabella. She smiled at him from behind Duncan, her delight in their situation most clear, then Alexander raised his voice.

“All hail Murdoch Seton, the new Laird of Seton Manor!”

“All hail!” roared the people of Kinfairlie in unison.

Alexander turned and beckoned. The crowd parted and Owen led a black destrier toward the happy couple, a massive stallion with a gleaming coat and bright eyes.

“Hermes!” Isabella gasped and Murdoch realized it was that same horse.

Alexander grinned as Owen brought the horse to his side. Hermes stamped and snorted at the noise of the crowd, his ears flicking. He sniffed Alexander with obvious affection, then spied Isabella. Hermes pulled the Laird of Kinfairlie toward his sister with a determination that made the assembly laugh.

“A wedding gift for my sister, Isabella,” Alexander said and Murdoch heard his new bride catch her breath in awe. Alexander leaned forward to hand her the reins, his eyes sparkling. “You always said you wanted one of Ravensmuir’s horses, and Hermes, truth be told, chose you long ago.”

Isabella gave a cry of delight, taking the reins then patting the horse. She kissed her brother’s cheek, then kissed the ostler as well, making him flush scarlet. Then she walked around the horse, so obviously delighted that Murdoch smiled. Her joy was infectious. “We must breed him!” she cried to Murdoch. “And see that the world is filled with horses of his ilk.”

Murdoch laughed. “We must ask your brother of that,” he said, for he knew that any soul who bred horses with such care would want a say in the future of any horse that left their stable.

Alexander smiled with indulgence as he watched her pleasure. He spoke softly to Murdoch. “I would have you bring him here to stud once annually, if you do not mind, for his lineage is excellent.”

“I would be happy to do so,” Murdoch agreed. “And I make no jest. I would welcome your counsel in breeding. Your experience in such matters is far greater than mine.”

Alexander smiled at him. “I shall be glad to do so.” Once again, the pair shook hands heartily. There were embraces then and much laughter, backslapping and handshaking, until the whole company eventually turned to make their way to Kinfairlie’s hall to feast. Hermes returned to the stables with Owen, prancing as if the day had been planned to show him to advantage.

But it was Isabella’s happy smile that made the moment complete for Murdoch. “Did you know about Duncan?” he whispered to her.

“I suspected that Alexander had some secret,” she confided.

“And Hermes?”

She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “I but hoped. You must believe I have dropped many a hint in this hall, especially since Alexander gave Eleanor a horse as her nuptial gift.”

“Is this my own future then, to never have a secret from my lady wife?” Murdoch teased.

“What manner of secrets would you have from me?” she teased in turn, pretending to be affronted.

Murdoch laughed. “I cannot think of a one.” He kissed her quickly then, halting only when Alexander cleared his throat close by. He shook Murdoch by the hand and leaned close to embrace him, whispering with quiet urgency when he did as much. “Take Annelise with you to Seton Manor.”

It was more of a command than a request. Murdoch stepped back and studied his wife’s brother. “You have a reason for this?”

“I have many,” Alexander admitted. “But know this—I put my trust in you with another of my sisters.”

“I do not understand.”

“The Earl of March would see her wedded to one of his men, and I would keep my pledge that she would choose her own spouse.”

Murdoch studied Alexander and guessed that the earl was becoming forceful in the matter. “I see,” he said. “What of Elizabeth?”

Alexander’s lips tightened as he eyed that sister and Murdoch wondered who meant to court Elizabeth. “One sister in your care and another in mine,” was all he said. “It seems only fair.”

“Indeed, it seems most fair for me to have two beauties from Kinfairlie in my home. I thank you for your trust in me.”

Alexander gave Murdoch a steely glance. “We shall meet at midsummer at Inverfyre, and if Annelise is yet a maiden, we will bring her home to Kinfairlie.” His intensity could mean only one thing: Alexander wished for Murdoch to ensure that Annelise was wed by then.

By her own choice.

“I understand,” Murdoch said softly, holding Alexander’s gaze. He was keenly aware that Isabella was listening to all of this. “I shall ensure that Annelise is treated with such honor as if she were my own sister in truth.”

Alexander smiled and they shook hands again, the decision made and a new bond forged between them.

“You have a secret now,” Isabella whispered when Alexander returned to Eleanor’s side.

“I have a quest,” Murdoch replied softly. “And you know I how I welcome such a challenge.”

Isabella studied him, a wary twinkle lighting her eyes. “You are to find Annelise a husband. One she loves and who will love her well. A man of honor and some affluence.” Isabella bit her lip. “Do you know of such a man?”

“The Highlands are full of them.” Murdoch placed his hand over hers and gave her fingers a squeeze. “And you know well, my Isabella, I like nothing better than a challenge. We shall undertake this one together.”

“I have no doubt that we shall triumph,” his lady declared with satisfaction, her eyes dancing. “For we know not how to fail in matters of the heart.”

And Murdoch laughed aloud for, as always, his Isabella spoke the truth.

* * * * * * * * *

Cast of Characters

A large family in a large household in a long linked series means many characters passing through each book. This character list should help you place everyone as you read. Names in bold type are characters with their own listings.

The character list has been updated for this current book, so if you have not read The Rogues of Ravensmuir and The Jewels of Kinfairlie, there may be spoilers. Babies born and marriages made will be added with each new book in the series.

* * *

Alexander Lammergeier – oldest son of Catherine and Roland; Laird of Kinfairlie after 1420; married to Eleanor Havilland; father of Roland (the younger). His story is told in THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE.

Annelise Lammergeier – third daughter of Catherine and Roland and their sixth child; sister of Alexander. Her story will be told in THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE.

Anthony – castellan of Kinfairlie, serving Alexander and Roland before him.

Darg – a spriggan, and one very fond of ale. This small fairy can be seen and heard by Elizabeth.

Eleanor Havilland – wife of Alexander and Lady of Kinfairlie; mother of Roland (the younger). Her story is told in THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE.

Elizabeth Lammergeier – youngest sibling in the family at Kinfairlie; fifth daughter of Catherine and Roland. She has the ability to see the Fae.

The Elphine Queen – a Fae queen of Scotland. Like Finvarra, she has a taste for mortal partners.

Erik Sinclair – Laird of Blackleith; husband of Vivienne; father of Mairi and Astrid by his first wife, Beatrice; father of Catherine (the younger) by Vivienne. His story is told in THE ROSE RED BRIDE.

Father Malachy – Kinfairlie’s priest.

Finvarra – King of the Daoine Sidhe. Although usually resident in Ireland, he visits the court of the Elphine Queen annually. His wife is Una but he is not faithful. He is also an excellent chess player.

Gawain Lammergeier – younger brother of Merlyn; husband of Evangeline; Laird of Inverfyre; father of Michael (the Hawk) and adoptive father of Rosamunde. His story is told in THE SCOUNDREL.

Isabella Lammergeier – fourth daughter of Catherine and Roland and their seventh child; sister of Alexander, wife of Murdoch. Her story is told in THE RENEGADE’S HEART.

Madeline FitzHenry – oldest daughter of Catherine and Roland and their second child; sister of Alexander; wife of Rhys FitzHenry; mother of Dafydd and Rhiannon. Her story is told in THE BEAUTY BRIDE.

Malcolm Lammergeier – second son of Catherine and Roland and their fourth child; Laird of Ravensmuir.

Matthew – the son of Kinfairlie’s miller. His courtship of his wife, Ceara, occurred in THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE.

Michael (the Hawk) Lammergeier – Laird of Inverfyre; son of Evangeline and Gawain; milk cousin to Roland; husband of Aileen, father of Nigel, Evangeline (the younger), Mhairi, Gawain (the younger) and Avery. His story is told in THE WARRIOR.

Moira Goodall – Eleanor’s maid. She has served Eleanor since the lady’s infancy.

Murdoch Seton – brother of Duncan; husband of Isabella. His story is told in THE RENEGADE’S HEART.

Merlyn Lammergeier – Laird of Ravensmuir and later Laird of Kinfairlie; married to Ysabella; father of Tynan and Roland. His story is told in THE ROGUE.

Owen – Kinfairlie’s ostler.

Roland Lammergeier – Laird of Kinfairlie by his father, Merlyn; husband of Catherine; father of eight children: Alexander, Madeline, Vivienne, Malcolm, Ross, Annelise, Isabella, Elizabeth; died in a shipwreck in 1420 along with Catherine. He makes a brief appearance with his family at the end of THE WARRIOR.

Rosamunde Lammergeier – a foundling adopted and raised by Gawain and Evangeline as their own in THE SCOUNDREL; lover of Tynan; wife of Padraig Dean. Her story is told in “The Ballad of Rosamunde.”

Ross Lammergeier – third and youngest son of Catherine and Roland and their fifth child.

Rhys FitzHenry – Lord of Caerwyn; husband of Madeline; father of Dafydd and Rhiannon. His story is told in THE BEAUTY BRIDE.

Tynan Lammergeier – Laird of Ravensmuir after his father, Merlyn; lover of Rosamunde; died in the collapse of Ravensmuir in THE ROSE RED BRIDE.

Vera – chamber maid at Kinfairlie, who has long attended the daughters of the house.

Vivienne Sinclair – second daughter of Catherine and Roland and their third child; wife of Erik Sinclair; step-mother to Mairi and Astrid; mother of Catherine (the younger). Her story is told in THE ROSE RED BRIDE.

* * *

Ready for more True Love Brides?

Read on for an excerpt from

The Highlander’s Curse.

The Highlander’s Curse

Coming in April 2013

Annelise strode through the village of Seton Manor, blind to the activity that surrounded her. It was early summer in the highlands and the weather was fine. Seton blossomed under the hand of Murdoch and his new bride, Annelise’s sister, Isabella. The mood in the village was joyous, for all saw that their future was improved.

Annelise did not share this happy view. Indeed, she was irked and mightily so, much more so than any who knew her might have thought possible. She was vexed with her situation and thus with herself. It troubled her beyond belief that Isabella, her younger sister by two years, had wed before Annelise herself had even snared the interest of a man.

Annelise would die alone.

Tending to the children of her sisters, no doubt, and dependent upon the goodwill of their respective husbands. As kind as the husbands of her sisters had been, that was not the life Annelise had ever desired. She wanted a husband of her own, and children of her own, a hearth of her own and a garden of her own. She did not want to sit by the fire, complete her embroidery and watch the world slide past her in all its glorious activity. She wanted a busy life herself.

But she knew not how to begin upon it.

It was her cursedly shy nature at root and Annelise knew it well. She could see the evidence in the fortunes of her sisters, each of whom had been rewarded for audacity. Her eldest sister, Madeline, had boldly fled an unwanted match and won the ardor of Rhys FitzHenry. Her next sister, Vivienne, had boldly tempted a lover to come to her, and had won the heart of Erik Sinclair. Isabella had boldly dared to believe in the integrity of an apparent villain, and thus was now Lady of Seton Manor. Even Eleanor, who had boldly fled an abusive household, had won true love by taking a chance.

Sadly, Annelise had thus far in her life been incapable of either boldness or taking a chance.

Her disgust with herself was made worse by the compassion of others. Isabella’s husband, Murdoch, had invited many men to his board, his intent in finding Annelise a match openly acknowledged by all. They knew she could not manage this feat alone and deigned to help her, though in a way, their assistance was condescending. It was clearly necessary, though she might have preferred otherwise. The fact was that even though Annelise knew the men in question had come to meet her and to speak with her, she was so wretchedly timid that she had not spoken to a one of them.

She would die alone, and ’twould be her own fault.

She was a fool. Should she not be able to change her manner and thus her fortunes, perhaps she deserved to die alone.

The very idea gave her purpose. Annelise reached the edge of the village but kept walking, her chin high. She could not go back to the hall, not yet, not before she had made some change in her circumstance, however small it might be. As the forest closed around the road and the road curved out of sight of Seton village, Annelise knew what she would do.

She would visit the glade with the natural well, the place where people came to pray for healing. It was an old place and she had been there several times with Isabella. Isabella had prayed there to quickly conceive Murdoch’s child, and five months into their marriage, she rounded with child. It was clear that the well had power, and equally clear that Annelise had need of assistance. She would go there herself this very day and pray that she found a husband.

Soon.

* * *

Garrett MacLachlan darted through the forest in pursuit of the wolf, not caring that he left his father’s estate far behind. It was only in the forest that he found peace, and only truly in the wilderness where he felt at peace. His curse seemed more of a gift when he left human society behind.

All the better, he had a quest this time. He tracked a ravenous wolf, one that had eluded all attempts to trap it. It had eaten well at the expense of many others, and Garrett would see the beast pay for its crimes.

As soon as he had set out after the wolf, Garrett realized why it was so elusive. It was larger than most, but moved with astonishing speed. Further, this wolf was silent in the forest and could disappear into shadows, as if it were not truly of this earth or as if it had never been. It was cunning even beyond its fellows.

Garrett would have lost it a hundred times, save for his curse. Even now, he caught only glimpses of it moving through the forest, a fleeting shape against the patterned shadows of the leaves.

It was his awareness of the wolf’s thoughts and intent that gave him an advantage.

For once in his life, his legacy had value.

On this day, Garrett felt the wolf’s thirst and guessed its intent.

He was aware the moment that it smelled water. He was not surprised when the wolf slipped over the ridge and descended into the hollow between the hills. He heard the bubbling of the water as he crept behind the creature and realized the wolf had found a spring.

The wolf glanced back more than once, pausing beneath a shrub or in the shade of a tree, its eyes gleaming as it sniffed the air. Garrett knew it sensed that it was pursued, and he dared not let it perceive him. He knew this wolf had not eaten for a week.

It would rip out his throat for coming too close.

It would rip out the throat of any creature it could devour. Harried by some awareness of Garrett’s presence, the wolf had not paused to eat. Now, hunger made its belly growl, and hunger—Garrett hoped—would drive it to err.

Garrett was not even certain where he was, save that he was close to his prey. It did not matter. Once the wolf was dead, he would claim its pelt as proof of his deed and return home—undoubtedly to have his father’s new bride discount his accomplishment. It did not matter what his father thought of him these days, or what lies Rowena told of him—it mattered only that he did what was right. He could not help what burden he had been born to bear, and he could not stop that curse from aiding Rowena’s scheme to discount him in his father’s affections.

The curse of hearing the thoughts of others had been his mother’s legacy. His father had loved her. He should have known what ailed his son. He should have been able to see beyond his own lust for Rowena to see the way she schemed to ensure the advantage of her own brat over his blood son.

Garrett paused to collect himself, aware that the wolf had a keener sense of him. Anxiety would draw the wolf’s attention, and his thoughts of Rowena had no place in this hunt. All was simple in the forest. There were hunters and there was prey.

He knew which he would be.

The wolf’s concern faded, perhaps because of its thirst. Garrett saw it leave the shadows ahead. On quick feet, it entered a glade dappled in sunlight, a tranquil place of verdant green. There were rags of all colors hanging from the trees at the bottom of the valley, a sign that people came to this place to pray for healing. The wolf was momentarily disconcerted by the scents of so many humans, but it made its choice and headed for the water.

Garrett waited and watched. He could see the light on the pool around the spring, turning it to a silver mirror. He could see the wolf clearly from this position, and he was downwind of it. He reached out to sense the wolf’s thoughts and felt its confidence.

The wolf was silvery grey, his snout and paws darker than its back, its tail lush. His pelt should adorn a lady’s bed, Garrett’s lady’s bed, a token that was proof of his intent to protect the woman pledged to be his own. But Garrett had no woman and he doubted there was a woman alive who could accept his curse. His life was lonely and it would remain so.

The wolf stepped into a patch of sunlight, glanced about itself, then bent to drink.

Garrett raised his crossbow to fire, then froze in place when the wolf suddenly straightened. He felt its heartbeat accelerate. It raised its head and folded its ears back, sniffing and scanning, then raised a lip to snarl at some threat.

That was when Garrett saw the woman. She was on her knees as if in prayer, her head bowed and her hands folded before herself. He had not seen her at first because her cloak was green and her hood pulled over her hair. She was utterly still, as women in his experience seldom were.

Her thoughts were nearly silent, so serene that even he with his gift had not been aware of her presence. That astonished him.

At the wolf’s snarl, though, her head snapped up and terror filled her thoughts. Garrett had time to see that she was lovely before the wolf leapt toward her with teeth bared.

Without hesitation, Garrett lifted the crossbow and fired.

* * *

Watch for The Highlander’s Curse

Book #2 of the True Love Brides series

Coming in April 2013

* * *

Claire also writes paranormal romance, paranormal young adult and contemporary romance as Deborah Cooke. Read on for a taste of Kiss of Fire, the first book in her Dragonfire paranormal romance series.

Kiss of Fire

One kiss can change the course of destiny...

For millennia, the shape-shifting dragon warriors known as the Pyr have lived peacefully as commanders of the four elements and guardians of the earth's treasures. But now the final reckoning between the Pyr, who count humans among the earth's treasures, and the Slayers, who would eradicate both humans and the Pyr who protect them, is about to begin…

When ace accountant Sara Keegan decides to settle down and run her quirky aunt's New Age bookstore, she’s not looking for adventure. She doesn’t believe in fate or the magic of the tarot—but when she’s saved from a vicious attack by a man who has the ability to turn into a fire-breathing dragon, she questions whether she’s losing her mind—or about to lose her heart...

Quinn Tyrrell has long been distrustful of his fellow Pyr and a self-reliant loner. When he feels the firestorm that signals his destined mate, he's determined to protect and possess Sara, regardless of the cost to himself. Then Sara’s true destiny is revealed—and Quinn realizes he must risk everything—even Sara’s love—to fulfill their entwined destinies...

Chapter One

Sara was tired and hungry and hot by the time she left the New Age bookstore that had been her Aunt Magda’s pride and joy. It was late and it wasn’t the first time she’d thought that taking over the business might not have been such a good idea.

That wasn’t just because the stock was weird.

She’d made a lot of changes in six months and it was only natural that she’d remember the good bits of her past life when her present life challenged her. She yawned as she locked the door of the shop, tucking her reading choice for the night under her arm. She felt the emptiness of Nickels Arcade behind her and reminded herself that she’d left the big city behind.

Sara glanced down the silent pedestrian passageway and wished that she had her aunt’s psychic gene.

Some things didn’t change: she still walked as briskly as a city girl. She was still organized and efficient, still an ace accountant, still had a plan of attack for every obstacle in her path.

Including Magda’s records, which seemed to have been kept in Sanskrit.

Sara would conquer them, one line item at a time.

She only got halfway to the State Street exit before something fell to the sidewalk behind her. It rattled, then rolled, the sound of metal on stone echoing in the arcade.

Sara had a bad feeling, but she looked over her shoulder anyway.

Whatever had fallen glittered, right on the threshold of her shop. It hadn’t been there a minute before. It was small and round, and it winked, like it was calling her back to pick it up.

As if.

Sara spun to continue and stopped cold.

A man stood in the exit. He was right in the middle of the center arch, the streetlights behind turning him into a menacing silhouette. He hadn’t been there before and Sara guessed the coin had been thrown to distract her.

“I do love predictable women,” he said and laughed. It wasn’t a friendly laugh. He pulled a balaclava over his face before stepping out of the shadows.

Sara quickly considered her options. There was an exit at the other end of the arcade. It was darker on Maynard Street and less busy, but given the alternative, Sara could live with that.

She pivoted and ran.

She heard the man coming after her. His steps were longer than her own, she heard him gain on her with every step, and her heart thundered in fear. She remembered every track meet she’d ever competed in and pushed herself to go faster.

This was a race that she had to win.

Sara ran as if her life depended on it. Quite possibly, it did. With every step, she was more certain she was going to make Maynard. She was half a dozen steps from the doors, she was reaching for the handle, she brushed it with her fingertips...

He seized her shoulder, hauling her to a stop.

Sara screamed.

The man flung her against the display window of the last shop with terrifying force. She fell against the glass and wished it had broken. The alarm might have summoned help. She came up fighting, swinging her book at her assailant’s head while she had the chance.

She missed, but only because he ducked.

He snarled and caught her wrist in his hand. He twisted it quickly behind her back and the book fell from her grasp. He slammed Sara’s chest against the window so hard that it vibrated. It still didn’t break. Sara clenched her teeth in pain. She blinked back tears, realizing that he didn’t care whether he hurt her.

Bad news there.

Sara wasn’t going to whimper, even if she was terrified. She opened her eyes to find dozens of empty ring boxes displayed in the jeweller’s window in front of her. The reflection of her attacker’s silhouette loomed over her, dark and menacing.

She wished he wasn’t wearing the balaclava. She wanted to give the police a good description.

Assuming she got out of this alive. She didn’t need Magda’s tarot cards to have a very bad feeling about her own future.

“I don’t have much cash,” Sara said, surprised to hear herself sounding so calm and collected. “But you can have what there is.” She held out her purse with her free hand.

He seized it without releasing her. Sara had a heartbeat to hope before he flung her purse across the arcade. Its contents scattered noisily.

“Money isn’t what I want,” he whispered. Sara saw the flash of his teeth as his hands closed around her throat from behind. “I hope you’ve said your prayers, Sara.”

He knew her name. Sara had time to be stunned before he squeezed.

Then she couldn’t take a breath. She panicked as his fingers tightened relentlessly around her neck.

He was going to kill her, right there.

Sara struggled. She scratched and bit and tore at his hands, but his grip didn’t waver.

She let herself shiver and go limp, hoping he’d think she was weakening. He chuckled just a little, but it was enough to show that he had let down his guard.

With her last bit of energy, Sara drove her heel up hard, aiming for his crotch. At the very least, she might cramp his style.

She missed.

She saw his fist coming in time to duck. He still caught her shoulder, the force sending her tumbling to the pavement. He was stronger—or more angry—than she’d realized. The skin tore on Sara’s knees and her dress rose up to her thighs as she tumbled. She tried to roll to her feet, but he landed heavily on her back. He pinned her down with his weight, his knee on the back of her waist, and locked his hands around her throat again.

“Feisty,” he whispered in her ear. Sara shuddered. “I like my women with some fire in them.” He seemed to find this funny. He tightened his grip and Sara immediately felt faint.

She couldn’t move because of his weight on her back. She struggled and tried to scream, but only managed a gurgling noise. She fought for her own survival, even knowing the odds were long. Her vision began to get dark around the edges and she fought harder.

She was losing.

Then Sara heard a hiss and saw a flash of light. Maybe this was what dying was like. The bookstore was loaded with books that talked about going toward the light.

Funny but she’d thought it was supposed to be a white light. This one was orange, like firelight.

Then the weight on her back was gone and Sara was lying alone on the pavement, gulping at air. She felt weak and dizzy. She scrambled away from her attacker, instinctively putting distance between them, then flinched at the crackle of flames.

She looked for the fire and knew that she was hallucinating.

There wasn’t a fire in the arcade.

There was a dragon.

Sara blinked and looked again, but it couldn’t have been anything else. It was a dragon, just as they were drawn in children’s books, but alive. Here. Sara couldn’t make sense of what was illogical and impossible. She stared as the fabled beast reared up on his hinds, his leathery wings spanning the width of the arcade. He was silver and blue, gleaming in the night like a jewelled broach.

But much, much bigger.

He was furious. Sara could tell by the way his tail swung, by the way his eyes glittered, by the smoke coming out of his nostrils.

Sara backed away. Her attacker was lying on the other side of the arcade, as if he’d been snatched up and flung aside. There was a trickle of blood beneath him.

He moved when the dragon exhaled fire and the flames licked his boots. The man leapt to his feet. He took one look at the dragon—as if he couldn’t believe his eyes either—then ran. The dragon leapt in pursuit, sending a furious bellow of fire after him. The floor of the arcade shook with each bound the dragon took and Sara thought that the glass in the shop windows really would break.

Her attacker just ran.

There was smoke in the arcade after his footsteps faded from earshot. Sara swallowed when the dragon turned his attention on her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and she couldn’t swallow the lump of terror in her throat. She backed away but found the glass of a shop window behind her.

She wasn’t sure her situation had improved.

Sara heard a low growl in the dragon’s throat, almost like a purr, and wondered what he had planned for her. She looked left and right, but knew she had no chance of outrunning this creature. She glanced up, thought she saw the silhouettes of other dragons through the glass roof of the arcade, and decided she was losing her mind.

That was the only rational explanation for seeing dragons.

The dragon eased closer, his movements surprisingly graceful for his size. This time he made no noise as he moved, and she could faintly hear traffic in the distance. His scales seemed to be made of metal and gleamed with each step he took. She could see the strength of him. His eyes were bright and when she looked into their fathomless blue, Sara’s heart fluttered. He leaned closer and seemed to smile at what he saw.

Her.

Lunch.

Sara closed her eyes, said a prayer, and feared the worst.

It didn’t come.

* * *

Kiss of Fire

by Deborah Cooke

is available in both a digital and print edition.

Win A Book!

You could win a book from Deborah or Claire by entering the monthly contest on her blog. There are two contests—and two prizes—each month.

For the Reviewer Contest, you need to post a review of one of her books somewhere online—Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, you name it. It just has to appear on a public site.

For the Reader Contest, all you have to do is enter for a chance to win.

To learn more—and enter!—use the links above to see this month’s contest posts. You can also visit the Alive & Knitting blog, then choose either Reviewer Contest or Reader Contest from the category sidebar.

Good luck!

About the Author

Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance that was published in 1993 under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published more than fifty romance novels and numerous short stories. As Claire Delacroix, she has written historical romance, romance with fantasy elements, fantasy with romantic elements and future-set urban fantasy romance. As Deborah Cooke, she has written paranormal romance and paranormal young adult fiction. She also wrote briefly as Claire Cross—the time travel and paranormal romances originally published under that name have been re-released as Claire Delacroix books, while the contemporary romances have been re-published as Deborah Cooke books. She tends to include fantasy and paranormal elements in her stories and likes to write linked series of books. Her stories include a blend of action, adventure, romance, humor and deep emotion.

The Beauty by Claire Delacroix, part of her successful Bride Quest series, was her first book to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. She has been nominated for numerous awards (as Claire and as Deborah), including Publisher’s Weekly’s Quill Award, and has won some, including the Booksellers’ Best Award. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she won the RWA PRO Mentor of the Year Award for her support of aspiring and new writers. Her blog, Alive & Knitting, includes her weekly column on the changing landscape of publishing called Wild West Thursdays and a post each Friday about her knitting.

She makes her home in Canada with her family, too many books and too much yarn.

Connect Online!

Deborah Cooke’s website

Claire Delacroix’s website

Deborah’s blog Alive & Knitting

Deborah’s Facebook Page

Claire’s Facebook Page

Deborah’s Monthly Newsletter

* * *

Book List

Links will take you to the author’s website

for excerpts, copy and buy links.

Claire Delacroix titles:

Historical Romances

The Rose Series:

THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE

THE SORCERESS

ROARKE’S FOLLY

The Moorish Series:

HONEYED LIES

THE MAGICIAN’S QUEST

The Unicorn Series:

UNICORN BRIDE

PEARL BEYOND PRICE

UNICORN VENGEANCE

The Sayerne Series:

MY LADY’S CHAMPION

ENCHANTED

MY LADY’S DESIRE

The Bride Quest:

THE PRINCESS

THE DAMSEL

THE HEIRESS

The Bride Quest II

(also called The Scottish Bride Quest):

THE COUNTESS

THE BEAUTY

THE TEMPTRESS

The Rogues of Ravensmuir:

THE ROGUE

THE SCOUNDREL

THE WARRIOR

The Jewels of Kinfairlie:

THE BEAUTY BRIDE

THE ROSE RED BRIDE

THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE

“The Ballad of Rosamunde”– a short story

The True Love Brides:

THE RENEGADE’S HEART

THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE (upcoming)

Time Travel Romances

(Originally published under the name Claire Cross):

ONCE UPON A KISS

THE LAST HIGHLANDER

LOVE POTION #9

THE MOONSTONE

Short Stories and Novellas:

Amor Vincit Omnia

(digital only)

An Elegy for Melusine

(in TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC)

The Kiss of the Snow Queen

(in THE QUEEN IN WINTER)

The Ballad of Rosamunde

Urban Fantasy Romances:

The Prometheus Project:

FALLEN

GUARDIAN

REBEL

Deborah Cooke Titles

Paranormal Romances:

Dragonfire

KISS OF FIRE

KISS OF FURY

KISS OF FATE

WINTER KISS

HARMONIA’S KISS

WHISPER KISS

DARKFIRE KISS

FLASHFIRE

EMBER’S KISS

The Dragon Legion Novellas (upcoming)

Paranormal Young Adult:

The Dragon Diaries:

FLYING BLIND

WINGING IT

BLAZING THE TRAIL

Short Stories:

The Leaves

(digital only)

Coven of Mercy

Contemporary Romances

The Coxwell Series:

THIRD TIME LUCKY

DOUBLE TROUBLE

ONE MORE TIME

ALL OR NOTHING

The Renegade’s Heart

Table of Contents

Cover Copy

Copyright Page

Dear Reader...

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Cast of Characters

Excerpt: The Highlander’s Curse

Excerpt: Kiss of Fire

Contests

About the Author

Connect Online

More Books by the Author