Prickles shot down his spine, making him sit taller. He paused, the quill hovering over the parchment he’d been writing on. Eoin waited, trying to judge if magic had kissed him, or if it’d been his imagination.
The shiver started again, in waves, getting stronger as the call was repeated.
Nothing was normal about the sensation. It wasn’t a chill from a fire going out or a too-breezy room from gales outside. It was what he called, ‘Fae-feels.’
It was the telltale sign that it’d changed hands. Again.
Korinna had promised she’d keep it safe when he’d entrusted it to her three years ago. Well, at least, three of his years. She’d told him he wouldn’t have to go traipsing through the centuries to protect it. He could stay home in 1752—1755 now—where he belonged. She’d ensured that a convincing-looking fake was put in its place, and even his clan didn’t know. He wouldn’t have to worry about what he didn’t have control over—where the Faery Flag was in the far future.
Well, then, why the Fae-feels?
Eoin growled and made a fist. “I’m goin’ ta kill tha’ witch.” He slammed the quill down. The inkwell on his desk jumped and spewed black ichor, as if in protest. It dotted the corner of the missive he’d been drafting.
He wiped what wetness he could away, but the letters were smeared, and the date he’d noted on the top right corner was obscured. He frowned because his skin was stained now, too.
“Problem, brother?” Fiona caressed the doorframe of his ledger room for a moment before sauntering inside, making her skirts dance. She was dressed in finery, complete with a MacLeod plaid around her waist and tacked over her shoulder with a brooch he’d given her—a more feminine version of his own. Her ebony hair was braided intricately and pinned up, the ends framing her pretty face in cascading curls.
He wracked his brain. Had he forgotten about a feast of some sort? It wasn’t the anniversary of her birth—or his, for that matter.
Never mind.
Eoin wouldn’t ask. The lass often sought attention, so that must be what this was about. He didn’t bother chiding his sister about entering his sanctuary uninvited; Fiona didn’t often obey him, even with the threat of bodily harm. Not that he’d put his hands on her—of which she was well aware. To his detriment, and it only added to her boldness. If she were younger, he’d tan her hide, but she was no longer a child.
“Nay.” It came out a near bark.
She arched a dark eyebrow. “Nay? Yer countenance states otha’wise, my laird.”
He focused on her face, narrowing his eyes. “What do ye wan’?” His sister never addressed him properly unless she was begging for something. Dealing with the little pest of seven and ten would distract Eoin from his impending departure, anyway.
She smiled her most persuasive grin. The one that always melted their grandfather into a pile of goo, baring her right dimple and all the teeth in her head. She’d mastered the art of making her eyes sparkle to go along with it by age two.
He’d always been immune to that smile, despite his younger sibling’s beautiful visage. It’d always led to her pouting, but he didn’t respond to that, either. Everyone else in their clan doted on her; he couldn’t afford to.
“Why would ye think I wanted anathin’, except ta pay my respects ta my favorite brother?”
Eoin picked his quill up, and resumed his letter. The Fae-feels plagued his spine, but he wouldn’t shift in his chair in front of his beloved little bother. He’d not have her thinking him weak for something she didn’t know about. “I’m yer only brother,” he said, not hiding the dryness of his words.
“That doesna mean I adore ye any less!”
When he looked up, his sister had curtseyed with a flourish, and her sapphire eyes were fairly shining.
“What. Do. Ye. Want, Fiona MacLeod?”
“Oh, verra well, if ye need ta be as such.” She flopped down into the chair nearest his desk, slumping her shoulders. Her bottom lip shot out in its familiar form. Her posture belied her garments.
Eoin studied her.
Fiona straightened her shoulders when she noticed. She took a breath, making her breasts heave and it occurred to him the green gown, made of glimmering fabric, was too low cut, revealing too much of her body.
When had she grown up so much?
She’d always been a pretty little thing, flitting around Dunvegan. Causing trouble, no doubt, but making everyone adore her, as well.
“Cover yerself,” he growled.
His sister frowned. “Why? ’Tis the style. Ye approved of this gown when I had it made, did ye no’?”
He hadn’t actually paid attention when she’d sought coin for new clothing. Something he wouldn’t make the same mistake about again. “Why have ye come ta see me?”
“I wish ta be wed,” she blurted.
Eoin blinked.
His sister’s fair skin flushed pink from chin to ear. She fidgeted in the oversized carved chair and wrung her hands on her lap.
“Aye?”
She nodded, making the curls dance around her cheeks.
He’d thought he’d have more time to find her a suitable husband. Their father had passed when he was a lad, right before her birth, so the duty fell to Eoin as laird, but he’d been waiting for her to grow up. Not in years, but in maturity. “Verra well, I’ll start tha search—”
“I know who I wan’ ta marry.” Another blurt, and now her face was crimson.
“Who has put his hands on ye?” he snarled. He stood to his full height and rounded his desk, towering over his sister.
Her blue eyes went wide and she shook her head. “Nay. ’Tis no’ like tha’.” She retreated, cowering like she hadn’t—ever.
“Then, explain ta me, Fiona MacLeod, what ’tis it like?” Eoin sat on the edge of his desk, only a few feet from her.
“He loves me.”
His instinct was to scoff, but a silly smile lit his sister’s face and her eyes went glassy, what the lasses would call, dreamy.
“I shall kill him,” he declared.
Fiona focused on his face and glared.
Ah, there’s my sister.
“Nay. Ye willna harm him. I will marry Kenneth MacDonald.”
Eoin startled. She couldn’t have— “What did ye say?” he barked. Crossed his arms over his chest.
She straightened in the chair and squared her slim shoulders. “We love each other.”
He was torn between anger and laugher. “Ye are seven and ten. The lad isna much older. What do ye know of love?”
His sister didn’t pout, as expected. Fiona sat taller, and her eyes flashed. “What do ye? Ye’ve never wed. How do ye know more than me abou’ love?”
Love is for silly lasses.
It didn’t matter what he thought about love.
Eoin wasn’t going to say that aloud. He’d not want her to think he was more like a petulant child than she. “Ye arena marryin’ a MacDonald,” he commanded, low and gruff.
His sister rolled her eyes and tsked. “Our clans arena enemies ana longer.”
It was true, a great aunt of theirs—by marriage—had wed the MacDonald laird, so they were technically kin, but Eoin wasn’t going to admit that to the lass before him. MacDonald and MacLeod avoided each other, and he liked that just fine. As it’d always been.
Kenneth was the current laird’s heir, so if she married Callum MacDonald’s son, his sister would maintain her station, but Eoin wouldn’t give her to a MacDonald. “‘Tis no matter. Yer no’ goin’ ta marry a MacDonald.”
“I am so.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Ye would defy yer laird?” His voice rose with each word, until he was shouting. Of course she would. She did so weekly, if not daily. Frustration swirled in his gut and rose to his throat. He needed his grandfather, but then again, the man would probably side with the lass.
Eoin tried to use his size to intimidate her, but Fiona was on her feet now, her fists pinned tight to her sides, and she leaned toward him, as if her petite form could compete with his. Like most men in his family, he was past six feet in height and just as broad.
The material of her gown rustled as she pitched forward. Her eyes flung daggers at him.
If rage didn’t dominate his body, he might’ve laughed.
“I’ll run away!” Fiona shrieked. “We’ll run away tagether.”
Not likely.
The lad was an heir. He wouldn’t.
“Kenneth promised—”
“Is all well?” Jamie, the head MacLeod steward, and their cousin, poked his red head into the room. His eyes shot from lass to laird and he cleared his throat, then shuffled forward. He inclined his head to them both.
The Fae-feels demanded all of Eoin’s attention, making his body shake. He needed to get to the Faery Stones. The longer he waited, the more the demand would make itself known. He’d become ill if he resisted, and unable to walk.
He’d learned his lesson when he was a lad. Couldn’t ignore the call. It was his duty to protect the Clan MacLeod’s Faery Flag.
“I’ve ta go now.” He looked at Jamie, who was one of the few who knew of his duty and its demands. “The Flag calls.”
“Ah. Verra well, my laird.” Jamie bowed. “Ye willna have worries when yer gone. Yer grandfa and I shall handle clan matters.”
Eoin fought a full body shudder and forced a nod. The magic that ran through his veins was screaming now. His heart thundered and his temples throbbed.
“What does tha’ mean?” Fiona yelled, but neither man acknowledged her.
He should have Jamie send someone to ready his horse, but he couldn’t. If he wasn’t there to keep an eye on his little pest, his steward would have to, because their grandfather would let her run amok.
Eoin cleared his throat and locked his gaze with his sister’s. So she would know he was serious. Then he looked at their cousin. “Lady Fiona is ta be confined ta her chambers.”
Her outrage was instant. Instead of sobbing, like most lasses would, she glared and started to holler at him. Even rushed to him and pounded tiny fists to his chest before he caught her wrists in a hard grasp.
A glare stopped Fiona from further assault, but she didn’t close her mouth, uttering unladylike curses even after he’d released his hold.
Their parents would roll over in their graves to hear her speak as such. Even their grandfather would take her to task, were he in the room.
“‘Twill be done, my laird,” Jamie said, as if Fiona wasn’t still screaming. “Safe journey.”
“Thank ye, Jamie.” Eoin pointed to his sister. “Ye, I will deal wit’ when I return.”