Warrior’s Redemption Read online

  “I’ve no more care for the politics of Fae than I have for those of Man. I care only for the child grown to woman whom I left behind when I returned to my service in your temple. I must know the truth of her fate. I want to travel through the curtain. With my Magic.”

  “And if you find your daughter has not been harmed? If you find it is as I have indicated?”

  If, pray the Goddess, Isabella lived happily joined to her SoulMate, as the Goddess insisted? “Then I want the power to reward those who aided her.”

  The visage in front of her shimmered from green to gold and back again.

  “In offering reward as freely as you threaten punishment, Elesyria, you demonstrate your wisdom. So be it. You may retain your powers to use for this purpose and this purpose only. Your years of faithful service watching over my followers have earned at least this much from me. As you go forth, I will set in motion what I can to assist. Travel to the place where your daughter should be. Seek out the Tinklers when you arrive. They are my eyes and ears in the World of Man. If any can guide you to the truth, surely it will be they.”

  “Thank you, Earth Mother.”

  Elesyria bowed her head, honoring the Goddess before her. When she lifted her eyes once again, she was alone.

  Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders and hurried from the chamber, already seeing the spot where she would cross over in her mind’s eye.

  She would find the Tinklers the Goddess had spoken of and she would know the truth. She prayed the result would require her to use her Magic for the benefit of one who had helped her daughter, but if not?

  Woe be unto any who had lifted a hand to bring harm down upon Isabella. They would feel her wrath even if it should shake the very foundations of the Mortals’ world.

  Two

  CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

  1294

  HAD IT BEEN only this morning he’d dared to complain aloud that his life couldn’t possibly get any more complicated?

  Malcolm MacDowylt, beleaguered laird of the MacGahan clan, pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose and wished to the gods he’d never stepped foot out of his bedchamber this day. The bird that had flown into his open window at sunrise should have been warning enough of the gods’ intent at mischief. Foolishly, he’d ignored the sign and carried on.

  Walk softly and have a care for your tongue, lad, lest you stir the anger of the old gods.

  His father’s voice echoed in his mind, naught but a memory now.

  Aye, the old gods were busy this day. Neither his heavy burden of guilt nor the cursed drought that had plagued the land for months, threatening a winter of starvation for his people, had satisfied the denizens of Asgard. Not even his younger brother’s arrival this very morning with the distressing news of his father’s passing and his sister’s resulting peril had satisfied their perverse pastime of plaguing him.

  No, their judgment of his failures made clear their anger was in full bloom. Now, as if to drive home the spear of their discontent, they’d sent this woman to torment him.

  “Am I to be kept waiting in attendance upon your daydreaming for the entire night, or will you send a servant to prepare my chamber?”

  Of all the penance he might have expected the old gods to demand of him, he’d never imagined they would send Isabella’s mother to torment him.

  So much for his ability to imagine the worst. The truth of the matter stood before him in all her arrogant glory. Elesyria Al´ Byrn clearly expected his meek compliance with her demands.

  What choice had been left him? None. At least none that was honorable, and he would consider no others.

  “As those who brought you here have seemingly left without you”—if they’d ever been there to begin with!—“I can hardly turn you out into the mercy of the night, now can I?”

  “Tinklers,” she murmured with smile and a sigh, her hand fluttering through the air like a midsummer butterfly. “Everyone knows how unreliable they are.”

  Tinklers unreliable? Not in his experience. They were, however, rumored to be agents of the Fae. Just as Isabella was rumored to have been born of a Fae mother. The very woman, it would appear, now standing in front of him, her foot tapping impatiently on the stone floor.

  “Well? It’s hardly proper to keep your own dear mother-in-law standing about on these old legs.” The woman lifted a hand to her back and stretched as if she’d reached the limits of her endurance.

  His own dear mother-in-law, indeed.

  More like his own personal bundle of guilt.

  “Janet!” he called, startled to find the old maid already at his side, her disapproving glare fastened on him. “Please show my—show Isabella’s mother to a guest chamber and see that she’s made comfortable.”

  “And high time it is, too,” Janet muttered, a disapproving glare cast his direction. “It’s more respect for yer elders you should be showing, if you dinna mind my saying so.”

  Not that it ever mattered what he minded when it came to the chief maid in his castle. Janet always freely spoke her mind. He had, after all, encouraged her to do so.

  The women turned to leave the solar but his guest stopped, sending a warning smile in his direction. “I’ll be about settling my things in my chamber for now, but come first light, I’ll be back down. I’m wanting a chat with you, my son. There’s much I’ll be wanting to hear from your own lips. Much I have need to hear about what’s happened to my Isabella.”

  Malcolm dipped his head in a respectful nod and, after the women departed, once again pinched the spot between his eyes as if by pressure alone he could force the worry from his brow.

  There was one discussion he’d no desire to hurry into.

  His marriage to Isabella had been nothing more than a means to an end. He’d barely known the woman, but the act had allowed him to become the MacGahan laird without a battle, without any loss of life. He’d even done everything in his power to see Isabella off on the road to her own happiness, but as it turned out, that wasn’t meant to be. The guilt over her death had hung heavily on his shoulders since the moment his riders had returned with the fateful news.

  “She has the look of her daughter about her, does she no?” Patrick, his brother and trusted second-in-command, approached from the corner of the room. “Though there’s something about that woman . . .”

  Patrick’s words hung in the air between them, sending a prickle of discomfort down Malcolm’s spine.

  “Something? You think she lies about who she claims to be?”

  Patrick shook his head slowly back and forth, his gaze fixed on the doorway. “No. I feel no sense of deceit about her. It’s more of a . . .” His eyes tracked at last to meet Malcolm’s. “I canna say what it is, Colm. Only that I’ve an unsettled feeling in her presence. She’s trouble, that one.”

  Silence filled the room, pressing against Malcolm’s eardrums as he considered the possibilities.

  “Could there be any truth in the old stories, do you think?”

  They’d both heard the rumors before they’d come here last year to claim what was owed them by the old laird of the MacGahan. Rumors of the old laird’s granddaughter, Isabella, having been born of a Faerie mother who’d long since disappeared from this world.

  In spite of those rumors, Malcolm had journeyed here to demand that which he was owed, the holdings of the MacGahan in payment for the laird’s debt to his own clan. After the old laird’s mysterious death, Malcolm had married Isabella to peacefully secure his place as the new laird. That the marriage to him had not been Isabella’s choice was only one complication.

  Patrick shrugged and dropped into the nearest chair. “There’s no one left from those days to speak on the truth of it, brother. And, whether or no, you’ve more pressing worries on this day than an aggrieved Elf in yer guest room.”

  Malcolm couldn’t agree more.

  “Have you decided what to do about Torquil’s demand?”

  Torquil.

  Malcolm claimed the chair facing h
is brother, closing his eyes as he sat.

  With their father’s death, their elder half brother had become the new laird of the MacDowylt. And with his new title, Torquil now demanded homage and fealty from Malcolm. No matter that their father had given to Malcolm for his own all that he was able to collect from the MacGahan. No matter that he’d become the MacGahan laird with his father’s blessing. As far as Torquil was concerned, all of it belonged to the MacDowylt clan and to him as the new MacDowylt laird. He saw Malcolm as little more than a caretaker and Castle MacGahan as nothing more than a source of silver for his coffers.

  “Castle MacGahan can ill afford to pay homage to Torquil. We’ll be lucky to feed our people through this winter as it is. And it should come as little surprise that I’ll no be pledging my loyalty or my men to our brother’s service.”

  His relationship with his elder brother had always been stormy. Unfortunately, it appeared his father’s death had done nothing to calm those waters.

  “And Christiana? Would you leave her fate to such as Torquil?” Patrick spoke calmly, only his eyes betraying his emotion. “He’s neither the patience nor the understanding she requires. Her gifts confound him, and we both ken that forcing her into a marriage or sending her off to a convent will be naught but a disaster for all.”

  His younger sister’s abilities to read the runes didn’t confound Torquil. They made him drool with envy. Patrick knew that as well as he did. As well as they both understood what might happen if Torquil couldn’t force Christiana to use her gifts for his benefit.

  “We’ll bring her here, where we can protect her.”

  Across from him, Patrick snorted his disbelief.

  “Have you gone daft? You ken as well as I do he’ll no let her come to us. No willingly. No here, where she might decide to use her gift for your benefit. She’d no be under his control and he’ll be having none of that. I can scarce believe he allowed Dermid to journey here.”

  Their youngest brother’s arrival had surprised Malcolm as well. Granted, someone had to deliver news of their father’s demise and present Torquil’s demands. But it seemed entirely out of character for Torquil to have sent Dermid.

  “Aye,” Malcolm agreed, frustrated at his own inability to interpret his elder brother’s intent. “It’s no like him to give up any pieces on his chessboard.”

  Whatever the new laird of the MacDowylt schemed, it made little difference. Malcolm’s course was all too clear. He could no more leave his sister in Torquil’s clutches than he could have turned Elesyria out into the cold this night.

  “No matter the cost. We bring Christiana here.”

  Patrick nodded, rising slowly to his feet. “In that case, it’s best I pay a visit to the MacKilyn. We’ve no enough men on our own to confront Tordenet Castle.”

  “Wait.”

  They would need help, no doubt. And Patrick was correct in wanting to ensure that the only remaining ally to Clan MacGahan supported them still. As much as it galled Malcolm, there was no option but to court the favor of Angus MacKilyn, as fickle an old man as ever walked the land.

  But not by sending Patrick. He needed his brother here to keep watch over Elesyria until they could determine why she had come and what she wanted.

  “Send Eric with a small party of men. I prefer your attention directed toward our houseguest, at least for the time being.”

  Just in case.

  Again Patrick nodded, a small quirk of his eyebrow the closest he came to questioning Malcolm’s decision. “As you wish, my laird. ’Tis a task well within the abilities of the captain of yer guard. I will see it done.”

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair, the sound of Patrick’s retreating steps in his ears. Lifting a hand to his face, he massaged one finger across the bridge of his nose, giving thanks for his brother. If only everything else in his life could be as predictable and steady as Patrick.

  Immediately, he sat forward, his eyes opened wide.

  “I dinna mean it!” he offered to the empty room.

  Best not give the old gods of Asgard any more targets this day.

  Three

  COMFORT, WYOMING

  PRESENT DAY

  WHERE THE HELL is she anyway? Hiding? She knows damn well I meant pumpkin, not pecan!”

  “Now, Charlie, think of your blood pressure, darlin’. She’ll be right back.”

  Dani Dearmon pulled the collar of her old sweater up against the wind and made her way through the early shower of snow crystals out to the ancient cottonwood tree, ignoring the upraised voices coming through the back door of the truck stop where she worked. She squinted against the biting sting of ice hitting her face and poured a capful of milk into the little bowl she’d fitted into the crook of the lowest branch.

  “I certainly hope you appreciate this, Faeries,” she muttered, turning from the tree and making her way back toward the sprawling building and the argument she knew awaited her.

  Not an argument, really, she corrected herself. More of a mini confrontation. But she was used to those now. Though they were old Charlie’s stock and trade, she’d learned long ago that he must have been the original inspiration for the saying about someone’s bark being worse than his bite.

  “What’s this I hear ’bout you having an oven full of pecan pies?” The old man stood in the center of her kitchen, his short stature and scraggly beard making him appear more like an out-of-place gnome than the owner of the biggest truck stop on this side of the state. “You lost what little sense you had? Halloween means pumpkin! Pumpkin is what you have for holidays, gal.”

  Dani turned from hanging her sweater on a peg by the door and smiled at the old man, taking time to pat his shoulder as she passed by him on her way to wash her hands.

  “Not holidays at my house.”

  “He’s talkin’ regular Christian holidays. The ones decent folks celebrate,” Verna, the oldest of the morning shift waitresses, added with a huff, her graying topknot shivering like a bowl of Jell-O as she spoke. “Not them evil Pagan things of yours. Don’t think we don’t see you sticking food out in that tree for your false gods.”

  Dani breathed in the calming smells of her kitchen and smiled, doing her best to ignore her fellow worker. “My Aunt Jean made pecan pies for every holiday. And you know for yourself, Charlie, my pecan pies will draw in every cowboy and trucker for a hundred miles.”

  As for Verna’s comment, she planned to ignore the woman. No point in arguing with her. How could she expect her coworker to understand something her own family never had? She knew from experience that she should just let it go. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. “And they’re not gods of any sort. They’re Faeries. Big difference.”

  “Get yourself back out front to your customers, Verna, and leave Dani be. She can believe in whatever she wants to.” Charlie turned his scowl from one to the other of them. “No matter how crazy it is.”

  The woman pursed her lips in irritation and snatched up one of the fresh pans of cinnamon rolls Dani had finished icing before she’d gone outside. With a harrumph obviously meant to include everyone, Verna disappeared through the swinging door into the front of the diner.

  “Guess we don’t have any choice but to make do with what you got baking since you already did it,” Charlie grumbled, scrunching his face into a scowl. “Don’t know why I put up with your sass lip.”

  “Because she’s the best baker in three counties and for some reason she likes us enough to stay on here and put up with you,” Charlie’s daughter answered. Evelyn, past fifty herself, grinned at Dani as she prodded her father’s back, urging him forward. “Come on, Daddy. Get out of Dani’s kitchen and let her do her thing.”

  “I’ll do pumpkin next batch,” Dani offered as a consolation to the old man’s retreating back. “I promise.”

  “Damn straight you will,” he asserted, snagging one of the fresh cinnamon rolls as he passed and stuffing it in his mouth. Dani shook her head, measuring out the ingredients for another batch of rolls, determin
ed not to let any of this ruin her mood. This was the part of her day she liked best, early in the morning, when the kitchen was mostly all hers. Surrounded by the aroma of those things she’d made with her own two hands, she felt the closest she ever had to being where she belonged.

  For a time she’d dreamed of going off to some fancy cooking school to become a real chef, but Aunt Jean’s death five years ago had put an end to that. Probably just as well. Being a real chef would likely have meant working in a huge restaurant in a big city, and she knew for a fact she wouldn’t have been happy in that environment. It simply wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

  “Damn Faeries,” she muttered to herself, squishing the sticky mixture in the bowl between her fingers. Some days she honestly wished she’d never read that first book about them.

  But she had, and from that moment on, she’d known in her heart they were real. More important, she’d known they had a purpose for her. A purpose and a place.

  She just wished they’d hurry up and get around to letting her know about that purpose and place. She was tired beyond measure of always feeling as if she were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Of all the places she’d worked in the past few years, this had to be the best. The hours were long and the pay was pitiful, but they provided her with a place to live as well as meals.

  They also treated her more like family than anyone had since she’d lost Aunt Jean. She could well imagine Charlie as a crusty old Scottish laird, straight out of one of her favorite books. He might raise hell with everyone around him but he protected his people from anyone else who might choose to do the same.

  No, she knew this wasn’t where she belonged, but it was as good a spot as any to be until the time came when the Faeries would finally send her where she did belong.

  “Don’t forget, you promised you’d go into Cheyenne with me this afternoon to pick up those new menus we ordered.” Evelyn grinned at her from the doorway. “And I hear that new metaphysical shop has finally opened up next door to the printers. We can stop in and have a look around while we’re there. Maybe find something pretty for them Faeries of yours.”