Chapter Two
Blackmorrow Glen
Scottish Highlands
Drummond MacMuirrow, lauded as the first Earl of Blackmorrow by the Bruce himself and heralded to become the next chief of Clan MacMuirrow upon his father’s death, reined in his mount to a slower trot.
He truly had no desire to hear about the latest possibilities for fruitful alliances from his father’s council of foolish advisors.
Marriage would be required to forge those fruitful alliances, his marriage to a woman of their choosing, and thus far, their choices had been quite the disappointment.
And then there was the matter of—an eerie shiver rippled through him—that otherworldliness he’d experienced three days ago, that vision of her.
He’d found it difficult to think of anything or anyone else.
He clenched his teeth against such weakness.
No, he had to put her out of his mind and focus on the good of the clan.
An arranged marriage was for the best. Surely, fortuitous news awaited him at Dubh Tower.
After a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, he set his mind firmly back where it should be.
There was nothing wrong with a union formed by political means.
It was the way of things. But that feckin’ council had better pull their heads out of their collective arses and find more suitable choices.
He refused to marry a terrified wee thing that was little more than a child or a mature lass who stank as though she’d never let a cleaning cloth or bit of soap anywhere near herself.
The woman had been so filthy; her skin had possessed a grayish tinge to it.
He shuddered at the memory. Prosperous alliances or not, he had politely declined those two possibilities from neighboring clans.
While not foolish or silly enough to hope for anything as rare as a true, heartfelt love—even after what he had seen in the forest the other day—he did expect a companionable woman with whom he could tolerate being in the same room.
She didn’t even have to be a ravishing beauty.
Of course, beauty wouldn’t hurt, but he had enough sense to realize that was fleeting.
And the closer his father came to death’s door, the more frantic the old chief and the council became. It was as though the MacMuirrow couldn’t die without seeing his son attached to a woman who benefited the clan.
If only Mother were still here. A headstrong Irishwoman, no one had better managed or steered his ruthless father in the proper direction than his mother.
Drummond gave a disgruntled huff, his breath fogging in the chilly air.
If only was a dangerous game in which to snarl oneself.
It was best to set aside wishes and dreams for those who could afford them.
He blew out another irritated snort. Wishes and dreams. Stuff and nonsense. Just like the day that strangeness had happened. He shook his head, fighting the memory of the incident that had shaken him to his core.
“I told ye to steer clear of that sidhe hill—and the Black Forest. Ye know the stories.” Murdoch Grant, Drummond’s trusted and loyal friend, shook a calloused finger at him. “Cursed ye, they did. Mark my words. Ye’ll have no peace till ye heed their message and do as they wish.”
“Ye’re more superstitious than an old washerwoman.” Drummond wasn’t about to admit that Murdoch had been right. He now wished he’d listened to his friend and stayed away from the Fae’s holy place. “Did ye not set foot on the sidhe hill with me? Ye damned sure went into the forest.”
“I did not touch the hill. I skirted around the edge of it, staying well outside its borders.” Murdoch grunted like an old dog disturbed from its nap as he shifted his generous girth in the saddle. “Ye were the one that vision came to. Not me.”
“But ye saw it too.”
“I saw a column of mist rise in front of ye like a wraith about to carry ye off to who knows where—probably yer grave, if’n ye ask me. Ye were the only one who saw a mysterious woman’s face rather than a bit of malicious fog.”
Drummond slowed his mount even more until the horse was as much as meandering along in search of food rather than carrying its master home.
“Aye, but she was a bonnie lass, Murdoch. Eyes as green as a glen in springtime and dark brown hair that rippled with shades of copper and gold, as rich and ruddy as the coat of that chestnut mare yer stallion loves. And her smile…” He pulled in a deep breath and let it ease back out.
“Pure sunshine. Nay, brighter than sunshine itself.”
“What about her ears?”
“What do ye mean, what about her ears?”
“Were they the pointed ears of the Fae? May the gods and goddesses help ye if a Fae lass has gotten a craving for ye.”
Drummond frowned, unable to remember if he’d even seen her ears. “Her hair was loose, down across the tops of her shoulders. I dinna think her ears showed.”
Murdoch slowly shook his head. “Ye are a damned man for certain, ye are.”
Drummond shooed away Murdoch’s proclamation with a grunt and a flip of his reins to return his mount to a decent pace, as a responsible chief would.
“Weariness and whisky took us over that day. Our minds played tricks on us, and our eyes played along.” Maybe if he said it often enough, he’d someday believe it himself and forget about her.
That afternoon hadn’t been a drunken vision nor a dream.
But it was best he name it as such afore its memory overtook him and ruined him for anything else.
He would marry a woman of the council’s choosing—eventually.
They merely needed to offer him a suitable and acceptable option.
And he would put the woman of the vision out of his mind. He would forget her. After all, she was nothing more than a fleeting, inexplicable moment that was better left alone.
“What about Clan Heberdy?” Murdoch asked, interrupting Drummond’s fuming.
“What about them?”
“Was there not a daughter born to their chief? One that should be of marriageable age by now.”
“I dinna ken.” Clan Heberdy bordered them to the west, but Drummond couldn’t recall but a few dealings with them.
All encounters had been peaceful enough, just not memorable.
Some trading of livestock to strengthen the herds—legitimate, agreed-upon trading—not the usual cattle lifting. “Why do ye ask?”
Murdoch shot him an incredulous look, then rolled his eyes.
“Are ye not in search of a wife, fool? After the last two the council offered ye, I would have thought ye’d take a more active hand in yer future.
” He chuckled and cocked a bushy brow. “Or have ye decided to return to the sidhe hill and call out for the Fae lass?”
“Ye’re an arse.”
Murdoch laughed louder this time. “Aye, but I’m an arse who’s free of everyone else’s plotting—including the Fae’s!”
“Out of respect for the clan, we shall see what the council has to say this time.” Knowing those bloody fools, they’d probably do their best to change his mind about choosing one of the last two, because both those maidens had a fair amount of land and riches coming with them.
Murdoch snorted, then made the sign of the cross over his chest. “I’ll pray for ye.”
“Pray for the councilors. They need it more than I do.”
*
Eyes swollen and burning from too much crying after a tearful goodbye party arranged by her team of drivers, Evie made yet another pot of coffee.
It didn’t matter that it was well after midnight.
She wouldn’t sleep anytime soon. She turned and leaned back against the kitchen counter while waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing.
The blank wall where all her monitors had been mounted stared back at her. Her former employer hadn’t wasted any time in showing up to get their equipment. The only technology left in her tiny apartment was her phone and personal laptop.
Her gaze shifted to the bulging manila envelope beside her purse on the couch.
Her drivers—those angels, those unappreciated bunch of sometimes grumbly men—had raised over ten thousand dollars for her, and insisted that she better take it or it would really hurt their feelings.
The sight of their loving, generous gift brought tears to her eyes all over again.
How would she get by without talking to those sweet friends every day?
Beside the envelope was another packet. Her travel itinerary and tickets for her trip to Scotland. Tomorrow. With Morganna Nightwhisper accompanying her. The woman acted as though she were afraid Evie would back out at the last minute.
She snorted. There was no reason to back out now.
Her landlady had kindly allowed her to skip a month’s rent, since she wouldn’t be there.
Thank goodness Mrs. Oliveri was such a dear soul who’d always worried more about feeding Evie than collecting the rent.
Many a time, the sweet old lady’s grandson had delivered overflowing containers of lasagna or braciole.
Evie had eaten for days on the woman’s delicious generosity.
Her lights flickered, reminding her that the rent included all utilities, so that was another worry crossed off the list.
With a heavy sigh, she poured a cup of coffee and stared at the streetlights outside the window above the kitchen sink. Maybe she’d save some money by going to Scotland. Morganna had insisted that the Tourism Council would foot the bill for everything.
An odd-shaped figure, dark and indistinct, streaked through the shadows down below, darting closer to the line of dumpsters against the building. Whatever it was appeared to be about three feet tall, thick around the middle, and came to a cone-shaped point at the top.