Just like Faeries were supposed to be stories?
Surely they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not after he’d faithfully waited for so long.
“Twelve ninety-four,” Halldor answered, his brow wrinkling in concern. “That blow to your head must have been harder than I thought. Best we find ourselves a healer in the next village we pass and get some herbs to put on that swelling.”
“Twelve ninety-four,” Chase muttered. “Twelve freakin’ ninety-four.”
They could, they would, and they had.
Damned unbelievable Faeries. His father had been right. Even when they gave you what you wanted, they always had to add their own screwed-up twist to it.
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Five
CASTLEMACGAHAN,SCOTLAND
1294
TROUBLE HOVERED AROUNDher like a swarm of midges on a summer’s eve.
Syrie knew she should never have done something like this. Then again, how could she not? She had given her solemn promise.
She rolled her shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the apprehension weighing her down and strode to the big door, stopping with her hand poised above the wood.
The MacGahan laird on the other side of this door would be, in all likelihood, quite upset with her news. The fact that she could already hear the murmur of angry voices coming from the chamber behind the door didn’t lend any comfort. It would have been her preference to find him alone and in a good mood.
Her hand dropped to her waist, where her fingers locked together with those of her other hand.
“By the goddess,” she muttered, remembering only as the words left her mouth that the goddess was perhaps the last being she should call upon.
Danu would be even more displeased with her actions than Malcolm MacDowylt could ever consider being. And the wrath of the goddess was a far more formidable threat than any tantrum the MacGahan laird might pitch.
She sighed, glanced down to her clasped hands, and forced them to her sides.
“Ridiculous,” she huffed under her breath.
She was no timid girl to be wringing her hands over her laird’s anticipated tongue-lashing, even if that was the part she’d allowed herself to be coaxed into playing. She was Elesyria AÍ? Byrn, a full-blood Faerie at the height of her magical strength.
“Though for how long I’ll remain that way is another matter all together,” she muttered, the nagging guilt washing back over her. Once her goddess discovered what she had done...
She clamped her lips together and lifted her hand once again to rap upon the wood, but the door opened before her knuckles made contact. The laird’s brother Patrick stood on the other side, wearing his usual stoic expression.
“I’d wondered how long before you’d show up,” he whispered, motioning for her to follow him to a spot at the side of the room, and indicating with a finger to his lips the need for her silence.
As if he thought she hadn’t the good sense to keep her mouth shut in the crowded room!
With a scathing look, she stepped back against the wall, making herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Six men hovered around the table where their laird engaged in discussion.
Malcolm, his face a mask of obstinate authority, bent toward the young woman across the table from him. Almost as tall as Malcolm, she gave not an inch, standing her ground, her expression matching his.
“I want Jamesy called home,” she insisted. “Our father’s murder cries out for vengeance, and if yer no going to see to it, then it’s up to us.” Her whole body radiated her anger.
Curious, Syrie decided having her questions answered was worth the irritation of speaking to Patrick.
“Who is she?” she whispered, stretching up on tiptoe so her words wouldn’t travel beyond his ear.