Warrior’s Redemption Read online

  “I’ll be ready.”

  More than ready. A trip into the big city was usually a chore, but this time Dani was looking forward to it. Oh, there’d still be all the noise and the traffic that grated on her nerves, but she’d been waiting for months to visit the store Evelyn mentioned. Ever since she’d read about the mystical powers in crystals, she’d been itching to give them a try, and on their last visit into Cheyenne, she’d seen in the window that the new store would be stocking crystals.

  With Halloween just a week away, maybe she’d finally found a way to contact the elusive Faeries she’d spent the last fifteen years believing in. Contact them and at long last set foot on the path to where she really belonged.

  “I’m going to be ready for you this year, Faeries,” she whispered, punching her fist into the ball of dough for emphasis.

  She’d read through a stack of books and knew that on Halloween, or what used to be called Samhain, the curtain between the world of Man and Fae was at its weakest. If she was ever going to communicate with the Fae, this would be her time.

  This was it. She felt it in her soul as if someone were whispering over her shoulder that after years of waiting, the Fae were about to disclose to her the purpose and the place they intended for her.

  A purpose and a place where she belonged, because she knew for a fact she didn’t belong here.

  Four

  CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

  1294

  ELESYRIA A´L BYRN stopped outside the large wooden door, patting one hand over her hair in an effort to compose herself.

  As she’d promised her Goddess before embarking on her quest, she was doing everything in her power to determine the facts of her daughter’s disappearance before taking any action. But sorting through the events surrounding Isabella was proving a most difficult task.

  Not to mention the toll it was taking on her emotions.

  She’d spoken to the Tinklers. They had told her all about her daughter’s escape from this castle along with a child and a man the Tinklers claimed was Isa’s SoulMate. With their help, she had trekked to the place where they had left Isabella and felt for herself the waves of Faerie Magic flowing from walls of MacQuarrie Keep.

  That wasn’t all she’d felt.

  In the dead of night, she’d visited the graves at MacQuarrie Keep, one with a stone that bore the chiseled name Isabella MacGahan MacDowylt.

  That visit had only deepened the mystery. Isabella did not lie in her grave. No one did. Just as no bodies occupied the graves of the man the Tinklers had claimed her daughter loved nor the boy who traveled with them.

  Wherever Isabella and her Robert had gone, it was not into those dank, dark holes in the ground.

  What was clear was that they had left this castle together. And from everything the Tinklers had told her, it appeared they could only have done that with the assistance of the man sitting behind the door she now faced.

  The laird of the MacGahan, her daughter’s widowed husband.

  There was much she still needed to learn before her work here was done. Chief among that missing knowledge was whether Malcolm MacDowylt had acted to help or to harm her Isa. And the only way to assess that accurately was to determine the true inherent worth of the man himself.

  Good or evil?

  Worthy of her gift or deserving of her punishment?

  Only time would tell. Time, and whatever test she could devise to provide the answers she sought.

  With a long, slow, deliberate breath, she exhaled the turmoil of emotions assaulting her heart and cracked open the door. Only one question filled her mind now:

  Who is Malcolm MacDowylt?

  “Eric left at first light, taking three men along with him. They should reach MacKilyn Keep in two days’ hard ride to present yer petition for aid. Within a sennight you should have yer answer.” The voice of the man who’d kept to the shadows last night. “Unless the MacKilyn decides to drag his feet.”

  “Aye. He’s an obstinate old bastard, that one. He kens he has us by the short hairs and I’ve no a doubt he’ll use that advantage to exact some sort of—”

  Malcolm’s response came to an abrupt halt as she pushed the door fully open and entered to greet two sets of hardened eyes turned in her direction.

  The owners of which were sadly mistaken if they thought to intimidate her with their stares. She could easily enough incinerate them both with a wave of her hand should she so choose.

  And choose she might if the brazen young laird failed her test.

  “Morning fare is served in the great hall, my lady, at the end of the corridor. Yer welcome to join those in attendance to break yer fast.” Malcolm looked from her to the door as he spoke.

  Luckily for him, she’d spent lifetimes honing her tolerance for fools.

  “It’s not my stomach that requires filling this morning, lad. It’s my ears. I’m ready for that chat we discussed last night.”

  Did he pale at her words? His lips certainly tightened into a thin, straight line, and a look passed between him and the other man.

  “Perhaps your guest would grant us time to discuss my daughter’s final days in privacy.” She waited, determined not to launch into the discussion in front of his man.

  Again a look passed between the two men, this one alive in tension.

  “I have no secrets from my brother, Patrick. He is as my right hand.”

  His brother, was it? Had she paid more attention, she might have guessed as much from the similarities in their appearance. They were of a size, the two of them, both tall and well-muscled. Battle-hardened men, she’d guess, from the identical expressions they wore to mask the depth of emotions roiling behind their intense blue eyes.

  Schooling her own expression to a matching blandness, she crossed the room and seated herself, taking extra care to assume an air of calm and control as she once again met their gazes.

  “As you wish. But know this, young laird of the MacGahan, I expect your complete honesty, no matter who is in the room with us.”

  His eyes flashed with what appeared to be an unguarded moment of anger before he caught himself and once again hid his emotion.

  “I can assure you, my lady, that I am well past being a scholar at the master’s knee and I am always truthful.”

  Malcolm’s clipped tones conveyed more of his emotion than she suspected he would have liked.

  “To a fault,” his brother added.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Elesyria glanced down to her hands clasped in her lap, marshaling her emotions for what she was about to ask. “I traveled to Castle MacQuarrie. I saw my daughter’s gravestone.” She paused, raising her gaze to meet his. “Are you responsible for her death?”

  Pain leaked through the cracks in his mask. Pain and guilt, igniting her anger even as she caught scent of his emotions.

  Let him try to deny it now.

  The beast of retribution seethed in her heart, its deadly claws unsheathing, prodding her to her feet.

  “Yes.” He spoke the word quietly.

  “You are not!” Patrick was at his side, a hand to his shoulder. “I canna allow you to claim as much to her own mother. Yer no to blame for what happened, Colm. You did everything in yer power to see her away and on the path to her own happiness.”

  Elesyria held her tongue as clouds of emotion rolled off the brothers, buffeting her senses. Patrick’s story matched what she had heard from the Tinklers. But if it were truth, why did she sense so much guilt from the man who’d married her daughter?

  “No.” Malcolm shook his head slowly from side to side in denial of his brother’s defense. “Had I forced her to stay here, she would yet live. All of them would. Isabella, the man who held her heart, even the poor, wee deformed lad. I sent them to meet their deaths.”

  Patrick turned from his brother, pounding a fist on the table next to him. “You allowed them to follow their own path. Who do you think you are? No even you could change what Skuld had woven for them.”

&nb
sp; “Skuld?” Elesyria had held silent for as long as she could. “I thought you were Scotsmen. Highlanders.”

  “We are sons of Scotland.” Malcolm’s chin lifted, his shoulders straightening. “Born and bred. But our father came to this land as Viking.”

  “Then you are Northmen.”

  “As you are Elven?” Patrick spoke, his back still to her.

  It boded well that they knew of her kind. Elesyria crossed the floor, stopping less than a foot from the men.

  “I haven’t been called such for longer than I care to admit.” Not since she’d last interacted with a Northman. How many centuries ago had that been? “My branch of the family prefers to think of ourselves as Faerie.”

  A sort of harrumphing noise escaped Malcolm’s lips and he crossed his arms in front of him. “Ridiculous,” he claimed, though he didn’t sound as sure of that as he tried to appear.

  Good. And now she would have the truth of that guilt surrounding him like a cloud.

  She reached toward Malcolm, lifting her arm to touch her fingers to his temple, his cheek. He stood still, as if his body had turned to stone, his eyes boring into her, his pride preventing any movement.

  There it was. Ripples of thick, oily guilt—not for what he’d done himself, but guilt for what he felt he should have done. For what he felt he should have been able to prevent.

  “Who are you, Malcolm MacDowylt?” She voiced the question, more to herself than to those present, as her fingers moved to his shoulder and then, ever so lightly, danced over his heart.

  Pain lanced into her fingertips, like nettles of fire stinging her skin. She jerked her hand away, her gaze tracking to the reddened skin of her hand and back again to his eyes.

  He seemed as surprised as she by what had just happened, grasping her shoulders with both his hands. “Are you well, my lady?”

  A Faerie could not be harmed in the Mortal world. Most especially not a Faerie in full possession of her powers. Not unless . . .

  Again she lifted her hand, careful to hover over his heart this time, not to actually touch that spot.

  “Ah,” she whispered. Had she been more intent on the search and less so on what she expected to find, she would have felt it before.

  It was not a question of who this man was, but rather what he was.

  More than Scotsman. More than Northman. More. Other. Strong Magic, old Magic surrounded him, raging in his blood.

  At least she had some of her answers now. This man before her was no vessel of evil. He had done what he thought best for her Isabella, and he carried on his shoulders the weight of that decision.

  It was reward rather than retribution she owed him.

  But how in the name of Danu did one go about rewarding a descendent of the old gods themselves?

  “I am satisfied with what I’ve found.”

  The barest tip of his head acknowledged her comment. “Then you will be leaving us soon to return to . . .” Malcolm paused, his eyes flickering to his brother and back again as he let the word linger a moment, as if in question. “To your own home.”

  “Not yet.” She patted his hand and gifted him with her most pleasant smile. “I believe I’d like to get to know you a little better first. After all, my son, by virtue of your marriage to my daughter, we are family, are we not?”

  More important, her work here was not yet finished. Not until she could find that which would make Malcolm MacDowylt a happy man.

  Five

  CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

  1294

  WHERE COULD THE annoying woman have gotten herself off to this time?

  Patrick strode through the darkened castle corridors, taking little care to hide his irritation. For the last week it had seemed as though he couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into Elesyria waiting there, but now that he actually sought her?

  Nowhere to be found.

  “Damn,” he growled aloud as he made his way through the kitchens to pause at the door to the gardens.

  Surely she wouldn’t be out there. Not this late at night. Not in this cold.

  And yet . . .

  He’d checked everywhere within the castle proper to no avail. And hadn’t she prattled on at the noonday meal about some sort of preparations for observing Samhain?

  Watch her, Malcolm had asked of him, and watching her was exactly what he intended to do. He had given his word.

  As he slipped out into the night, he sent a silent thanks to Freya for the full moon lighting his way even as he paused, listening for any telltale sounds.

  Within moments he sensed her presence. Following his unexplainable instinct through the cook’s garden and beyond the small orchard, he spotted her at last.

  Noiselessly, he concealed himself behind a large tree, where he could watch without being seen.

  What was the woman up to now?

  Elesyria kneeled on the ground, at the very center of a circle of strewn stones, her arms lifted beseechingly toward the skies. For an instant, as if his eyes played tricks on him, he could have sworn another figure floated above her.

  “Damned Elf,” he muttered under his breath.

  No doubt she practiced her own form of religion and, like as not, whatever she was up to now would do naught but bode ill for all of them. As if Malcolm needed one more burden placed upon his shoulders.

  If that was her plan, she’d best be about thinking again, because he was having none of it.

  Intending to stop whatever Elesyria attempted, Patrick stepped away from the tree but halted his movement as the woman he watched rose to her feet.

  Moonlight glinted off her form, sparkling playfully over the unbound hair that cascaded down her back like a river of fire. She twirled in dance, arms lifted, her face shining with unbridled joy as her laughter tinkled like the music of water over stones.

  Patrick ducked back behind the tree and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  Whether by trick of moonlight or magic, the woman before him was no gray-haired matron but a maiden. A lass at the peak of womanhood.

  By Freya, she was beautiful!

  In his chest, his heart pounded even as he fought to control his erratic breathing before he once again moved from behind the tree to catch another glimpse of her. Carelessly, his step snapped a dry branch, and across the field her head swiveled toward the spot where he stood. When their eyes met, the air shimmered as if a thick curtain had been pulled between them.

  For the second time he wiped a hand over his eyes to clear his vision. When he looked again, the Elesyria he recognized approached him, her face much older than he’d imagined only moments before, but her eyes still shining with her joy.

  “Good evening, Northman,” she greeted sweetly. “Did you satisfy your curiosity with your spying on me?”

  “Good evening, Elf.”

  He tipped his head respectfully, careful to hide the smile their shared greeting brought to his lips. A week ago he would have scoffed aloud at the suggestion that he would fall into such a comfortable routine with this woman.

  In the face of his self-imposed control, her smile broadened, her eyes twinkling.

  “Ah, Patrick, you are such a joy.” She linked her arm through his, patting his hand as she did. “Walk with me. I’ve had the most wonderful Samhain.”

  She was infectious in her happiness and, at last, he allowed himself the weakness of returning her smile.

  “So tell me, my lady, what has made this evening so special for you?”

  “My Goddess has brought me wonderful news. My Isabella lives, though far from this time. She’s happier than I could ever have hoped, and I have your brother to thank for that.”

  “You spoke to . . . your Goddess.” In light of her happiness, Patrick meant to remove any traces of doubt and sarcasm from his words. To his ears, though, he’d been less than successful. “She was here, was she?”

  Who was he to question what comfort the woman took from her religion? If their positions were reversed, he couldn’t say how he might reac
t to the loss of a child. Even a child grown to full womanhood.

  Again she grazed him with the glow of her smile and again, for just an instant, he could have sworn her visage shimmered between maiden and crone.

  Likely he needed sleep. He should be flat upon his back lost in dreams rather than chasing after this woman into the early morn. But a promise was a promise.

  “Yes. When the curtain between your world and mine thinned as is its custom on Samhain, my Goddess came to me, bringing her most welcome news. And that’s not all.”

  She squeezed the arm that linked through hers and tipped her head toward him, just as he’d often seen women do when they were about sharing secrets.

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes,” she breathed close to him, her words barely more than a whisper. “My Goddess, so wise and knowing, gave me the perfect solution to my dilemma of what to do about your brother.”

  Patrick wasn’t at all sure he liked the sound of that.

  “Then you’ll be leaving us soon, my lady?”

  “Oh my dear . . .” She pulled back from him, her laughter hitting the stones under their feet and bounding away like notes of music. “I can hardly leave now. Now is when our dear Malcolm will need me most. Look there!” She lifted a hand toward the sky. “Did you see? A shot of silver streaking through the sky. Proof the actions promised by my Goddess have been set in motion.”

  A hint of unease traveled across Patrick’s shoulders. “Explain yerself,” he demanded, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he’d intended. He was, after all, quite tired.

  She shook her head, her eyes still shining with happiness. “No, dear Patrick. There is no explaining some mysteries. You’ll simply have to wait to see for yourself.”

  No more words passed between them, Patrick’s thoughts consumed with what the blasted Elf had in store for them and how in the world he would explain all this to Malcolm.

  Six

  COMFORT, WYOMING

  PRESENT DAY

  WORD IS, I make a mighty good bed warmer, darlin’, and it’s terrible cold out here tonight.”