CHAPTER NINE
Munn waited. Even though he remained invisible, he hid behind a leafy bush until Gregor and the lass from the future passed and made their way along the footpath to the castle.
Confident with the knowledge they couldn’t see him, he hurried through the archway and into the walled garden, emerging into his physical form.
His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, drawing in the varied odors.
He traversed the main garden path, passing vegetable and herb beds.
His leg brushed a thyme plant, and its tangy scent reached his nostrils.
Extending an arm downward, he broke off a sprig and stuffed it inside the sleeve of his leine.
He passed the garden’s well and a bed of declining strawberry plants.
With a deep inhale, he tested the air again.
The closer he got to the rose garden, the stronger the treacly scent of faerie dust—a sweeter fragrance than that of the white chamomile flowers covering the turf bench. Too sweet for his liking.
He stood within the semi-circle of thorny bushes hands fisted on hips. What enchantment had been evoked this day by Mercail and her pesky pixies’ potent powder?
The serving folk in the castle whispered, spreading the rumor that Gregor would wed the lass from the future after the morning meal. Nuptials encouraged by the chief, they claimed. Had pixie dust made the couple agreeable?
Had Oonagh, the Queen of the Fae, drawn Marcail into her manipulative schemes and set her up as matchmaker since Caitrina was no longer beholden to the queen?
Doubtful. Oonagh would never stoop so low as to entrust her machinations to the impetuous wee folk. She’d more than likely entice one of the lesser faeries to do her bidding.
Arms crossed, Munn paced the length of the turf bench and back. Then, again. What was he to do?
If Marcail and her clan had gone rogue, Oonagh’s fury would be epic.
And on whom would she take out her wrath?
Munn. That’s who.
His duty was to protect Clan MacLachlan, but how could he stop the wedding without angering the chief? He’d tried on other occasions to stop MacLachlan men from marrying the wrong women and failed. And where had that gotten him? Nowhere.
Nowhere, but into a tub of trouble with the queen.
He huffed out a long breath and glanced at the sky. Dark clouds blew in from the east, chasing away the warmth of the sun. A portent of events to come?
Caitrina would ken what to do about the pixies. She was needed here in Scotland. Now.
Munn removed the thyme sprig from his sleeve, tore off a few fragrant leaves, and chewed on them to release their essential oil. He savored the agreeably pungent flavor on his tongue. The task he would undertake this day required courage.
He spun in a circle, sucking decaying garden debris into the whirlwind surrounding him, and then vanished from mortal sight, becoming mere particles traveling on the wind.
Arriving in the Fir-wood, he stumbled head over foot then crashed to the ground where he tumbled several times across the grassy mound of the Sithichean Sluaigh before coming to a stop and landing on his rump with a, “Humph!”
An aggressive shake of the head cleared blurred vision.
He flicked his gaze about the mound, swiveling his head this way and that.
No footprints marred the perfection of the grassy hill.
Munn inhaled a deep breath, deciphering traces of lingering scents.
Duncan. Gregor. The lass from the future.
The musk of a stag. Fae magic vibrated in the air, but nary a sign that Caitrina had visited the knoll during these past several years.
Damn that infuriating faerie. Where was the halfling princess when needed?
He pushed to his feet and marched to the center of the knoll, inhaled a deep breath, and concentrated. Pressure built. Pain pounded within his skull. He thrust his remaining energy into crafting a message, and sent it across realms.
A high-pitched wailing assaulted his ears. Agony unimaginable. He clamped clammy hands to the sides of his head. An anguished moan escaped his suddenly parched lips. A tingly numbness invaded his limbs. His legs faltered and he crumbled to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Moments passed. Minutes. Finally, he found the strength to rise to a sitting position and open his eyes. Wisps of pastel color hovered in the air—yellows, pinks, blues.
Summons sent. But had it been received?