Kissed by the Laird (First Ladies of the Fae Book 1) Page 9

  With a defiant glare at the pudgy guy, Caroline prayed even louder. “Our Father, who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

  Caroline barely finished her plea to God when the pig that restrained her said, “Are you about fucking done?”

  Not even close douche bag.

  Caroline refused to let these gutless pigs see her grovel or fall apart at their feet. Her fear was what these sick, twisted men thrived on. Well, they were going to be in for a huge disappointment. If she was going to die, she was going to do it the same way she tried to live her life…with a fight. She was about to attempt a counterattack, but stopped when a sound came from out of the shadows. At the same moment, Caroline felt the tip of the blade at her neck give a slight slip. I didn’t imagine it…he heard it too.

  Chapter Seven

  From deep in the glen, he heard Caroline’s clear plea for help. With each cry, her voice weakened, and he could feel her spirit breaking. The weary sound made him want to tear the heart from his own chest. He took the heel of his boot and gave Artemis’s flank a firm kick. It sent the horse in a gallop up the knoll. As he crested the steep incline, her cries waned, as though someone tugged her farther from his reach. The swirling mist in the glen below parted, as the dark-haired beauty named Caroline, who haunted his dreams of late, emerged from out of the murk. She looked lost, as though she sought something…or someone. Was she looking for him? Would she see him this time? As the forlorn sound of her voice echoed, Ian watched as she fiercely clutched the large treatise to her chest. She held it like a lifeline that kept her from slipping away from him.

  Before he could urge his mount forward, Artemis balked and shied to the right, his hooves stomping anxiously on the ground beneath them. A few gentle words and a stroke upon his fearless companion’s neck calmed the steed. However, Ian knew the uncanny fellow sensed something beyond the mist. He coaxed the horse down the incline when a flash of steel glinted in the moonlight. There was someone else here. Then Ian saw him, as he approached an unsuspecting Caroline from behind. He kicked his horse into a gallop and yelled, “Run lass run!” She didn’t move. Could she not hear his warnings? Frantically, he pushed his mount the remainder of the way down the hill. As soon as he reached the level ground, he sent the horse into a dead heat. Where the menacing figure came from, he didn’t know, but he’d never reach her in time. When he was a few yards away, he watched as the brigand placed a dagger to Caroline’s neck, and slit her throat. The only sound piercing the darkness of his dream was his own heart wrenching. “Nay!”

  Jolting upright and layered with sweat, Ian MacLaine, Laird of Lochbuie, knew it was the same dream that woke him again this night. For less than a sennight, it robbed him of sleep and peace of mind. However, never were the dreams as violent or graphic as tonight. He grabbed his Feileadh Mòr, the Scottish Great Plaid, pleated the red, black, and green garment expertly upon his bed, and rolled himself into the lengthy piece of tartan.

  Once around his trim waist, Ian took the wide, leather belt that hung on a wooden peg near his dresser, and secured it. Coldness of the wooden floors forced him to quickly slip on his hose and pull on his leather boots to protect his feet. It felt naked without the signh dubh he kept in his right boot, so he grabbed it from the bed stand and put it where it belonged.

  In three short strides, he was across the chamber, taking his large broadsword from where it rested by the door of his chamber, and headed to his study below.

  Jesu, I need a dram of whisky. Just the fresh image of that vile creature placing a knife to the girl’s slender neck in his dream caused a shudder deep to Ian’s core. Until this night’s dream, Ian had not recognized the alder tree he climbed as a lad, and he knew the exact valley where it was located. No matter how many fond memories he had of picnics beneath the ancient tree, he could not push away the portentous cloud that continued to embrace him. One thing was for certain, someone was trying to tell him something.

  Who was this woman that called to him from beyond? Aye, he now knew her name, but there was more to the dainty lass in his dreams. There must be more. The past two nights the dreams were harmless in comparison to this nightmare. Ian became mesmerized the first time he laid eyes upon Caroline, and somehow he knew she belonged to him and him alone. The first night, Ian sat upon the knoll as the strange lass read from the large tome upon her lap. The sight of her moist, pink tongue as it flicked across the tips of her fingers as she turned each page caused a stir beneath his kilt. He ran a hand down his face as the dream played over in his mind. It made even less sense. What could have prompted them to turn so vivid and violent? Running a hand through his dark hair, Ian suspected that all the strife of late, and one too many drams of Archie’s whisky supply may have added to the bizarre nightmare.

  Spilling his troubles about the dreams to his brother was not easy for Ian. Growing up, he learned to hold his feelings inside, especially with a brother like Calum. The man had a knack for provoking his ire the entirety of their youth. At the first sign of weakness, Calum would torment him, and their younger sister, Dorinda. Vocalizing their annoyance only prompted his brother to continue his taunts. Now he cursed himself a weak fool. He should have been strong enough to deal with Moy’s troubles without having to fill Calum’s ears. He alone was laird and he alone should be able to protect what belonged to him and the clan.

  He stepped through the door to his study, and Ian’s thoughts drifted to the Tir Nam Famhair. It shocked him to see Mo Daol cut her visit to Dunnideer short. However, he was surprised she had not given him an inquisition or demand to see the book right away. Perhaps, she never read the message in its entirety. Maybe she did not even realize it was gone.

  Closing the study door behind him, Ian felt the cold air filling the room, and headed straight to the hearth. At first glance, the fire appeared to be out, but as he stirred the coals in the grate, he was relieved to see the orange embers come to life. Tossing a block of peat onto the embers he waited for the newly added fuel to ignite. At Moy, they could afford to use wood, but he preferred the earthy scent of burning peat.

  He walked across the shadowy expanse of his study, and glanced to the revered place of the tome that now sat empty. Heavy pewter candle pillars still sat upon the mantle, but the void of the Tir Nam Famhair was impossible to ignore. Its history and tales held a special place in his grandmother’s heart. Delilah assured him the magic she had woven would keep the book from falling into the hands of those, who sought to destroy the MacLaine’s. The sooner the book returned, the better for all involved, especially Mo Daol.

  Satisfied the fire was burning strong, he crossed to the small table near the window to pour himself a glass of whisky, and paused as he took a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head of his most recent dream. “Jesu, after this night’s dream I would be daft to think one dram will be sufficient to calm my nerves.”

  Picking up the cup in one hand, and the decanter in the other, Ian went to sit in one of the upholstered chairs in front of the hearth, and placed the items on the table that stood between the two chairs. When he lowered himself to the seat, every bone and muscle in his body ached. It was Calum’s fault that his muscles screamed in protest. However, his grandmother would say they were both fools. A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth with his last thought. Aye. They had been fools. They sparred relentlessly in the list. Both men taking as good as they got. In the end, Mo Daol’s interference ended the challenge. Neither won the challenge that he issued in anger. The dreams and Argyll’s attempt at treachery placed undue stress on his already waning sanity. Magical books, Fae legends, a mystery woman…why someone has not committed me. Ian shook the image from his mind.

  Ian’s tolerance lesse
ned, as the intensity of the dreams increased and grew more vivid. A sense of helplessness weighed heavy upon his nerves… and his heart.

  He couldn’t understand how anything could have woken him. Between confiding in Calum, the amount of exertion he used from this morning’s spar in the list, and his lack of sleep over the last few nights, he should have slept like the dead. Yet here he sat, in his study, trying to interpret the volatile turn of this dream. Unlike the previous docile dreams of a beautiful maiden reading under a large alder tree in the glen, tonight’s dream embedded itself deep into his core. The sight of a dagger slashing across the column of the lass’s delicate neck hit him like a fist to his chest. Blood flowed freely and drained her body of life. The image would stay with him forever.

  Prior dreams had not shaken or affected him deeply enough to make him rise and leave his chamber. After the second night, the lass’s cries came again into his dreams, and Ian laid about his bed contemplating what they meant. Now a fourth night passed with the recurring scene and he found himself unable to remain in his own chamber, let alone look at the oversized bed where he slept.

  Rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, he was aware of one thing throughout this past week. The dreams appeared to last longer, and each one more vivid than the last. The sense of promise or hope that consumed him when he awoke the previous nights was no longer present. Tonight’s dream sent a strong overpowering sense of helplessness, a feeling that still lingered with him now. Wherever the lass was, he needed to find her before it was too late. The pewter medallion that lay upon his chest warmed sending a powerful energy deep into his heart. She belonged to him, and he would see her safe. Mine.

  With his elbows resting upon his knees, Ian stared blankly into the amber liquid, as he swirled the contents around in the glass.

  The sound of breaking glass startled Ian from his sleep, and he caught himself reaching for his dirk. He must have dozed before the study’s hearth while he dredged up the past and the glass slipped from his grasps. Bending over, Ian began to pick up the few shards that remained, and threw them into the fire. Involved in his clean up, he did not hear Mo Daol’s approach. The sound of her voice broke the silence and caused him to jump. Apparently, he wasn’t going to have to wait until morning to inform her of the Tir Nam Famhair’s whereabouts.

  “Yer thinkin’ about the frightened lass, are ye not? Ye can hear her cries, and that is what keeps ye from your bed this night.”

  Ian shrugged. “I am sure I do not know what ye speak of Mo Daol.”

  He pierced her with a questioning look.

  Mo Daol explained. “Greer told me ye were having trouble with sleeping as of late.”

  “Greer needs to tend to her own duties and remain out of my affairs.” Ian gave a gruff reply about the maid who was like a second mother to him.

  Using the endearment, his grandfather used for her in the past. “Mo Daol, when ye arrived home ye did not make mention of the Tir Nam Famhair, why? Are ye not a wee bit curious of its whereabouts?”

  A smile crossed her face, as she shook her head. “Nay, I am not worried. I spoke with Delilah this eve. She has told me what transpired.” Mo Daol shook her head. “That Diana has always been a bad seed.”

  Then he spoke. “Tell me what it is ye have to say.” Closing his eyes, he realized there was no use denying the dreams. “Does it… have anything to do with the dreams that have haunted my nights?”

  “Aye.” The creases around her eyes wrinkled when she smiled at him and continued. “I speak to ye about the lass in yer dreams Ian MacLaine, tell me true. She calls to ye, does she not?” she said the last as though it were fact.

  Ian watched as she drew closer to him, took his right hand and turned it palm up. Mo Daol removed the leather cord from around her neck and placed it into his hand and squeezed she closed his hands around it. It was the key his grandmother wore for as long as he could remember. It still hung from the same cord of leather. Ian could not recall a time the old woman had ever removed it.

  The weight of a bone key was cool to the touch as he clutched it tighter. In unison with the jagged half-medallion Ian wore, a power that surpassed all his logic flowed through his hand, chest and seared his soul. Emotions he could not comprehend physically began to plague his body. An anxiousness, like he never experienced before, flooded his thoughts. Beads of sweat manifested upon his brow, as the energy intensified and radiated through his body.

  “Ye can feel the power, Ian. I know ye do, lad.”

  Ian gave a slight nod of agreement, and opened his hand to view the source of energy flowing through him. “Aye, I feel it, Mo Daol. Why? What does this all have to do with my dreams of late?”

  Walking toward her favorite settee, his grandmother sat, patted the empty space next to her, and gave him a gentle smile. “Come Ian. Let’s finish the story your grandfather began that day, but never finished. So much happened that day he started to tell ye and well…up until now it did not matter. He bade her request and sat beside her. “Perhaps it is the answer to these dreams that torment ye each night.”

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, but earned a hard pinch at the back of his arm. “Och! What did ye do that for? I just had a question.”

  “Ian haud your wheesh’d and let me speak until I am through, aye?”

  “Haud my wheesh’d? Fine. Have your say and I will not interrupt again.” He did not know if her hard pinch offended him more than telling him to be quiet, but he complied.

  “If not for the Tir Nam Famhair and Fenella’s abilities, all hope would have been lost, as well as yer grandmum. Ian, ye are the only hope for this young girl that cries out in your dreams. She is the one.”

  “The one?”

  Mo Daol continued. “Aye. The Guardian. Ye must go to her. She does no’ know her destiny, but it is no’ in her time. It is here with ye.”

  In the past, he had not put much stock in his grandmother’s whimsical ways, but after speaking to Delilah about protecting the book from her sister’s hands, and her involvement with Damon Campbell. It would be impossible for him not to accept there was some truth to his grandmother’s beliefs. His grandmother’s words only increased his desire for answers he said, “Tell me. Tell me all of it.”

  Ian sat numbly and listened as his grandmother reiterated the garrulous tale. It was a story that sounded more like a children’s magical bedtime story until she spoke the one detail that was eerily similar to his dream. If he placed his faith in Mo Daol’s words the woman in his dreams, was no dream and her time was soon to run out…if it had not already.

  For several minutes, he sat stunned, as he let her words absorb in. “Are ye saying…” He paused finding it difficult to speak of the preposterous tale. “What are ye saying Mo Daol? Ye were the Lady of Moy!”

  Mo Daol pushed back the dark, wavy lock of his hair that had fallen across his brow and said in earnest. “Aye, I am quite a fetching lass, despite being close to two hundred years old.” He was speechless. “I can see how difficult this is for ye to swallow. I truly do Ian, but it is all true. Every last word.”

  Ian looked down at his hands. His fist clenched and released.

  “Time is what ye need, but the lass’s time runs short.”

  He looked at his grandmother, “What should I do Mo Daol?” He ran a hand down his face as he deliberated the options and threw his hands up in the air. “I know not where to start, but I canno’ sit by one more night helpless, as she cries to me. Delilah has sent the book far away to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. If Grandda did indeed travel through the Tir Nam Famhair to save ye, then there is no hope for the girl?”

  Her voice of wisdom broke through his thoughts. “There is something else ye must know. The night your grandfather saved me and the old Fae woman gave me a key.” She pointed to Ian’s clenched fist. “It was carved from the bones of your ancestors. Go where the magic is strongest, and just like a compass the key will lead ye to the book.”

  Ian’s eyes di
verted to the prize that he held. His features were of awe and disbelief combined, but his grandmother continued. Mo Daol smiled at him when he made the connection. “The book is not needed. The key will lead ye to the lass. Ye must go to the stones, Ian. The magical power lies within its center.”

  A brief moment of skepticism passed across his face. “Ye said it will open up anything my heart desires…what is it ye think I desire? If ye are thinking the lass, then ye would be wrong Mo Daol.” He chuckled at her fanciful thoughts. “The one thing I desire or need at this point is the bloody deed. I am content with my life, and do not need some vexing woman tae interfere with the way of things.” By the time, he finished the statement he was not sure who he was trying to convince that his heart was not loss to the dark-haired beauty in his dreams.

  A confident Mo Daol finally said, “Ye know what needs to be done lad. Perhaps…perhaps yer mind does not know, but ye heart does. It is the one thing a man is given in this life, but rarely uses it to its fullest abilities.” With those words, she shuffled to the door. Before walking out the door she said, “Follow your heart Ian, and if it be true…the key will do the rest.”

  His grandmother’s last words lingered as he clutched the key in his palm and the surge of power grew stronger. Within him, a war battled between logic and desire. A jarring shock stabbed the palm of his hands, startling him and he released the key.

  Looks like there is only one way to find out if there is any truth to her words.

  A quarter of an hour passed, as he went to saddle his trusted steed and journeyed to the standing stones. They were a little less than a mile beyond Moy. A thick stand of trees in the area kept the circle hidden. Those who were not familiar with the area could easily overlook it. The sound of an owl called into the night, as crickets chirped in unison. The rain had come and gone, as he anticipated earlier that afternoon, but a slight breeze continued to blow across the loch. The briny air was heavier after the rain, and it felt as though a layer of salt covered his skin.