The Fir-wood, Scottish Highlands, 1509
Patrick stared at the spot where his father and stepmother had gone missing. Had his eyes deceived him? Had a petite woman stood there dressed in a lad’s garments?
A strange light from a mysterious cottage had shone on the woman’s pale cheek. Enchanted by expressive blue eyes, he’d frozen in fascination. Gold hair caressed her shoulders, making him want to stroke the silky tresses. He flexed his fingers. Was he a smitten fool? He shouldn’t think about those lush pink lips and what he wanted to do with his mouth.
The cottage was gone now. A half-moon lit the mound where it had stood with an eerie glow. He hadn’t meant to walk so far this night. But walking had become his evening ritual ever since he lost his parents. After three years, his pain had become a restless ache. Unlike others, he had faith one day he’d find them. He believed his parents were alive.
To assuage the ache in his heart, he walked.
Only on this foggy evening, he’d wandered farther than intended, ending up in the Fir-wood, standing before the retched faerie hill. He rubbed his tired eyes. The last thing he’d expected to see was a beautiful lass in the mist of a garden he knew didn’t exist—a woman and a garden that both vanished from in front of him. He’d felt an odd oomph in his chest when their gazes met, then she was gone.
He was no simpleton. He wasn’t imagining things. Something was seriously amiss. Munn. That had to be the explanation. The wee man was creating havoc again. Patrick wouldn’t stand for it. He ran back through the wood toward the castle, determined to put an end to the mischief.
By the time he entered the courtyard, his chest burned from anger. Not watching where he walked, he tripped on a loose stone and collided with his cousin Stephen.
The blond warrior was his childhood friend, his henchman and personal guard. They had fostered together. No one knew him better, except perhaps for Patrick’s young half-sister, Elspeth.
“Where have you been?” Stephen asked. “I was about to send out a search party.”
“That would have been a damn fool thing to do in the dark.”
“Would it now?” Stephen smiled. “Were you with a lass?”
“Never mind you that.” Patrick tightened his lips and glared at his kinsman. “Where is Munn?”
That only served to broaden Stephen’s grin. “I saw him earlier in the hall with Elspeth.”
Whirling in the direction of the stairs, Patrick strode off.
Stephen’s footsteps thudded behind him. “Whatever is the matter with you? You look as if you ate something spoilt.”
Patrick took the narrow stairs two at a time, uncaring that his shoulders banged against stone. He burst into the hall and stilled.
The Brunaidh, whose duty it was to watch over Clan MacLachlan, sat on a stool near the fire, reciting rhymes for Elspeth. He waved his arms as he spoke. Dressed for foolery, the brownie wore baggy brown leather trews and a knee length leine of fine woolen cloth secured at the waist by a thick leather belt adorned with bronze. Around his shoulders, he wore a green brat held in place by a bronze brooch with a large clear crystal in the center. He tapped his feet in rhythm to the cadence of his voice. On those wee feet, he wore green boots with toes that pointed upward.
“Munn!” Patrick bellowed.
The little man twisted around, his whisker-covered face scrunched more than usual. Panic flashed in blue-green eyes, and he jumped to a full three-foot height. His bent nose twitched and he grasped hold of the funny-looking pointed green cap he always wore.
Anticipating the brownie’s attempt to escape, Patrick took hold of him. “Not so fast, wee imp. What mischief have you been about this night?”
“Nae.” Munn’s whole body shook. “Not I.”
“Then what caused a strange lass to appear to me in the Fir-wood and to vanish as quick?”
The brownie’s eyes grew big and round, his surprise obvious. Patrick had the sense to put him down and step back. Just in time. In a blink, the little man disappeared.
Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face. More questions plagued him than before.
* * *
Munn’s essence flowed through the wood, searching for the taint of magic. Soft giggles sang along with the rustle of blowing leaves, alerting him to the lost bairns who lived in the trees.
He didn’t have time to play their games tonight. He needed to find out what kind of spell caused the chief’s vision. Why had it been cast? And who did the casting?
No one else could perform the task. It was up to him to discover the truth. Munn sucked in a chest full of air, pleased with his importance.
As he rushed along the trail, the sound of young voices faded behind him.
The night grew late. A dense fog crept across the moor and through the wood. No mortal man was about. No human saw him appear at the edge of the Fir-wood. He hid behind the old hut and waited. When sure no magic users lingered in the area, he approached the grassy mound.
He didn’t know how the faerie knoll worked its magic. ’Twas a secret held dear by the Sithichean—the ancient faeries of the Highlands.
The vaporous mist wrapped around him, pressed against him, suffocated him. He inhaled deeply then recoiled, recognizing the exotic oriental scent, the fragrance of peony and freesia and sandalwood. That infuriating sithiche must have come out of hiding. She must be who spun the magic.
He searched for other traces, but found naught. The faerie did well to cover her trail.
Munn rubbed his aching temples. What trouble did she conjure this night?
He must warn the chief. Focusing on his destination, he summoned the travel spell, but anger blocked his magic. Munn kicked the dirt at his feet. He paced the knoll and cursed the fae.
Their interference would surely prove disastrous.
He concentrated on his breathing, spinning in frantic circles, until the pressure released and he melted into the mist.
* * *
Patrick stood before the fire in his chamber, sipping his finest claret. He swirled the ruby liquid in the cup, speculating the intent of the vision he’d seen in the Fir-wood. He didn’t have visions. That was Elspeth’s proclivity. His mind unsettled, he stared into the flames. Even the gold and blue dancing lights conspired against him, reminding him of the golden lass with the sparkling sapphire eyes.
Her expression of longing would haunt him through the night. The same need blazed within his chest. Would she have let him envelope her in a protective embrace? Kiss her fine lips?
The thought made him hard. “Ach, well…”
Who could she be? Where did she come from?
She wasn’t one of the villagers, that was for certain. Could she be one of their kin? Nae. That wouldn’t explain the mysterious vanishing garden and cottage.
Seeing the woman where his parents disappeared gave him pause. Could she be a witch? One of the fae? He stilled, shivered, feeling as if a banshee walked through him.
A rustling sound disturbed his thoughts when Munn whirled into the chamber, hopping around, ranting unintelligibly. Patrick seized the little man by his tunic, and shook him until he ceased his tirade.
With an angry scowl on his weathered, brown face, the little man wagged his finger. “I ken who caused the mischief. ’Twas Caitrina.”
“Witch?”
“Nae witch, sithiche. Mischievous female sprite set upon us by the old Earl of Argyll himself afore he died.” Munn turned and spit on the stone floor. “Guardian of your father’s lady-wife.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Why dinnae I ken who she is?”
“Ach, ’twas your father’s wish to keep it secret.” The brownie’s voice lowered to a whisper. “When I learned about your stepmother’s guardian, I grew angry. You were a bairn, too young to ken. We matched spells, Caitrina and me. Me more powerful.” Munn puffed out his chest.
“Go on,” Patrick urged.
“We created a terrible tempest, heavy rain, thunder and lightning over the mountains, we did. Tremendous rage escaped the otherworld. Your father and stepmother were rowing back from the village. They got caught in mayhem. Chief verra mad. Command us to stop. Nae more spell battles. Caitrina’s comings and goings kept secret from all.”
“Hmmm.” Patrick drained the last of the wine in his cup and filled it again from the jug on the table. “What do you think this sithiche is about? Why would she conjure such a vision?”
Why now?
Crinkling his face, adding wrinkles upon wrinkles, Munn made a show of thinking. After several moments, he broke out in a puckish grin.
“You like bonnie lasses.” He twirled around, spun in a circle, disappeared.
Damned brownie.
Patrick slumped into the chair beside the hearth and stared into the flames. The fire burned down until nothing remained but cold gray ash. Yet his musing hadn’t produced the answers he sought. When he finally fell into bed, a restless sleep held him within its grasp, dreams filled with enchanting sapphire eyes, a petite curvy figure and silky golden-blond tresses.
In the middle of the night, he woke in a rush. Fear tightened his chest, and his heartbeat raced as if he’d run up a mountain trail with an enemy in pursuit.
After a tense moment, his surroundings came into focus. He sank back into the mattress. He needed to be more careful of what he consumed before retiring. Patrick swallowed, trying to ease the dread. In the terror dream, he failed to keep the woman safe from danger.