Knight's Blood (14 page)
Authors: Julianne Lee
Tags: #Kidnapping, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy fiction, #Married people, #Scotland, #General, #Fantasy, #Children - Crimes against, #Fighter pilots, #Fiction, #Time travel
“You don’t want to be alone. I know you don’t.” Now his voice was softening. Seductive. Almost convincing, but she shrugged a shoulder and refused to listen. He continued, and she found it impossible not to listen. “You know, the question that occurs to me is why—if the man was seduced by Danu—then why was the resulting child raised as human and not fey? How did you lose your heritage?”
Heritage
. Lindsay’s head swam with the implications of what Nemed was saying. That she belonged to a tribe of faeries, and that her ancestry had caused the deformity in her son that had made it impossible to face the boy’s father. “Get away from me.”
. Lindsay’s head swam with the implications of what Nemed was saying. That she belonged to a tribe of faeries, and that her ancestry had caused the deformity in her son that had made it impossible to face the boy’s father. “Get away from me.”
Nemed wasn’t going to budge, so she covered her horse with its quilted bard and went to return the borrowed brush to Simon’s squire. The elf didn’t follow her, and she ducked back into the tower to see if there was meat to be had. Mead, at least. She needed a drink badly.
Good luck for her there was a haunch on the fire, which she bought into and sat down to wait for it to be ready. Talk was lively around the fire, men lounging on their bedrolls with nothing to do but chat while their squires and servants looked after things outside. She listened to some of the guys bragging about their time under Robert, a source of much glory during the past couple of years. The king had been desperate for men before Bannockburn, and every Scot with a horse, a weapon, and a grievance against the English had been recruited to fight. Now, having won, they were all heroes and heroism was thin on the ground among rogues such as these. They made the most of their boon.
Lindsay talked of her own experiences among Bruce’s army, having ridden with Alex’s patrol company under King Robert’s brother, Edward Bruce, and of the wound she’d taken at Bannockburn that had almost killed her. It was skating on the edge of discovery, though, for she was not in a position to pull off her hauberk, tunic, and sark to show them the scar across her rib cage. Over the past few weeks she’d satisfied the scar requirement by showing off at every opportunity the one on her arm she’d acquired in her first battle under Alex. Nobody asked to see the one on her torso.
The meat came ready and was portioned out. Lindsay ate with an appetite and thought she might like to roll into her plaid for a nap afterward. It was going to be a lazy few days, and they all wanted to get their rest before heading back south again.
A warmth spread at her crotch. Lindsay stopped chewing, but showed no other sign of alarm as she smoothly shifted from sitting cross-legged to sitting with her knees together. Alarm, however, sang through her body. Something was very wrong. She was bleeding, and heavily enough to soak through her trews in seconds. And now she didn’t know whether she could make it away from the fire and the men without having it run down her legs. She had to move quickly, or she would be trapped. Even worse, if bleeding this copious didn’t stop on its own she would certainly be dead before long.
Just as she was about to rise, one of the faerie knights—Iain was his name—frowned and looked over at her. There were no words, but he didn’t need them. His nostrils flared, and he peered at her in curiosity. A look of puzzlement, then realization came over his face.
He knew. He could smell it.
CHAPTER 8
Alex ordered that Trefor and his American friend should occupy the large, windowless room among the laird’s apartments below the Great Hall, off the meeting room. Close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close as to let him into Alex’s very inner sanctum. Hector and his gillies had the extra room off the anteroom to Alex’s bedchamber. Trefor and his buddy wouldn’t have access to Alex’s private chambers, and the quality of the accommodations wouldn’t let them overestimate their status within the household. Not that they were going to be there very long; Alex determined he would take his knights to the mainland as soon as possible to begin the search for Lindsay.
He was not nearly recovered enough from his illness to travel, but he had no choice. With Trefor watching him, eyeing him whenever he was in the room, needling him whenever they spoke, Alex had no desire to let on he’d even been sick, let alone that he was still nearly incapacitated. So he gave orders to ready the boats for hurried departure. Then he went to his bedchamber to rest again while Trefor and Mike settled into their room and Hector and Henry Ellot supervised the preparations. Gregor attended to Alex, who slept through the day and rose again in the late afternoon to make his way to the roof of the Great Hall for a look at the progress.
At the quay to the seaside of the castle stood two large boats, their furled sails red, black, and gold with the arms of Sir Alasdair an Dubhar MacNeil. Crates stood ready to load, and horses had been lowered to the bailey to be held in pens until just before departure. Alex observed the bustle of castle servants, pages, and squires, and saw things were going as smoothly as could be expected.
“Rinky-dink boats.” Trefor’s voice came from right behind Alex, who jumped slightly. There had been no noise, not even a sense of anyone being there. Trefor surely had seen the jerk of Alex’s frame, an embarrassment.
The Laird of Eilean Aonarach cleared his throat, tugged his plaid more snug, and faced forward, looking out over the quay. He said, “Only the king’s boats are bigger.” The king’s were quite a bit bigger, and far more numerous because he could commandeer merchantships, but that was neither here nor there.
“I expect he’s got a lot more of them, too. Teeny as they are. Everything in this place is smaller than I’d thought it would be.”
“Kinda like the Washington Monument.”
Trefor chuckled at that. “I suppose, though I’ve never seen the Washington Monument up close.” After a bit of silence, he pointed with his chin to the banner flapping over the portcullis on the quay and said, “Your arms. That bird is a bald eagle.”
“It is.”
“Mythical beast in the here and now?”
“I let them think that.”
“You sly boots.” Trefor’s voice carried no humor, and Alex took the comment as sarcasm. A dig. Trefor continued. “You put a lot past these people. I bet you get away with all sorts of things.”
Alex opened his mouth to deny, but closed it when he thought of the gun he’d emptied into the enemy at Bannockburn, which had earned him this lairdship, the story he’d let people believe about being from Hungary, the lies he’d told to convince the people of Eilean Aonarach that Lindsay was her own sister so he could marry her. After some thought he said, “I do. I might burn in hell for it, but at least I won’t be burned and sent there for telling the truth. Folks around here will tie you to a stake at the drop of a hat.”
“It’s no wonder you wanted to come back here. Lots of power. Lots of money.”
Now Alex turned to look at his son and wondered what he’d meant by that. “Shouldn’t I have?”
Trefor shrugged. “Search me. I was just saying.”
Alex grunted and looked over the battlement, down at the loading again. The sun was settling over the hilly island horizon, and long shadows of cliffs to the west had swallowed the boats below. The night would be clear, but Alex could see a gathering of clouds low on the horizon that threatened a difficult departure within the next few days. He gave a low groan. “Looks like the weather is going to screw us. We might not get out of here soon. If that storm comes any closer, I’ll have to hold off loading the boats.”
“Bad luck for us.”
“You don’t sound like you care much.” It seemed Trefor would have liked to see Alex fail.
“I care more than you think.”
Again Alex grunted and stared off toward the line of clouds. “This is going to cost us in time. Possibly equipment.” Damage to the boats was a danger.
“Maybe the storm will pass us by.”
“The wind is pushing it straight this way. And they’ve already got the animals and some supplies in the lower bailey. If it hits us hard enough, it’s not going to matter much that we haven’t set sail. If it hasn’t turned or petered out by morning, I’ll have to have all that stuff moved back into shelter.”
There was only silence from Trefor, until Alex tired of waiting for a reply and looked over to find Trefor with his head bowed and his fingers at the back of his head, beneath his hair. He looked as if he were massaging his own neck, fingering the base of his skull, his shoulders tensed and elbows out. Alex wanted to ask what he was doing, but sensed he wouldn’t get a reply. Not a rational one, anyway. Trefor continued that for a bit, then stood straight again and looked out over the water to the approaching storm. In the dusk, his face had paled and there was a sheen of sweat on him. His breathing was noticeably ragged, then he drew a huge sigh and let it out slowly. He whispered to himself, “There.”
“What?”
Trefor glanced at him and said, “Nothing. Just maybe we could be luckier than we think we are.” He said it as if he knew a joke on Alex. His eyes drooped shut, and for a moment he looked as if he might faint. Then he collected himself and sighed.
Alex wondered what he meant by that, but would wait to see what happened with the storm before asking.
Sure enough, Trefor was right. By morning the storm was closer, but the wind had shifted just enough that it appeared the worst of it would miss the island. Alex let the loading continue as they watched the progress. That night the edges of the storm barely brushed the tip of Eilean Aonarach, far from the castle and its boats. A couple of fishing vessels belonging to one of the MacConnells took some damage by banging into each other in the high swells, but that was all the effect the weather had on the island. The loading of boats continued without interruption while the storm beat hell out of the empty expanse of water to the west.
Alex looked to Trefor, who spent the day with the corners of his mouth curled in a private smile. He and his buddy hung out in the Great Hall with Trefor’s mercenaries, and it was plain none of them thought the good luck weather was remarkable.
Alex wondered what had really happened on the roof of the Great Hall last night. It occurred to him that he knew very little about the wee folk and their magic. Trefor looked like one of them. Was it possible he had powers like theirs? Alex didn’t even know what that meant in a full-blooded fey. What could it mean with regard to Trefor? Danu had never given him a clue as to what she might have accomplished or how. He knew Nemed had once been powerful, but was no longer. The Bhrochan had wiles and ways, but Alex didn’t really know what those truly entailed, beyond that they could make him very, very sick. Now he looked at Trefor and wondered. He was far more human than not. Lindsay had certainly never shown any sign of magical powers. Nor even an affinity for the Danann, in spite of favor from Danu. If Trefor was his son and not Nemed’s, then how closely related could he be to the fey?
The preparations to leave were completed that day. They would depart for the mainland in the morning.
During the night, Alex was hard put to sleep. His brain buzzed with thoughts of Trefor, for there was no denying he was related to Alex, and no reason to believe he was not the son who had been stolen just a couple of weeks ago. Those faeries were all nuts and certainly could have done what Trefor had said. But Alex’s brain didn’t want to wrap itself around this mess. He didn’t want to believe he was the father of a twenty-seven-year-old man, particularly one who seemed to hate him so well and for so little reason.
Frustration tightened his chest, and he sat up on the edge of his bed to gulp air. The night chill of his bedchamber felt good on his hot skin. The dying fire in the hearth crumbled into its own ashes, sending a sprinkle of sparks toward the chimney. The single glazed window was a small square of lighter black against the far wall, its frames forming a cross at the center. This room was sanctuary, deep within the thick stone of his keep and with access from only one door. Outside that door, three chambers away, lay a man who should be his heir and his closest kin, but instead was more than likely an enemy. There was nothing he could do to change it, but acceptance wouldn’t come. He didn’t want this. Couldn’t acquiesce to the idea of letting this man into his household and his life, and couldn’t countenance sending him away.
Alex rose from his bed, took his silk dressing robe from the foot of his bed to don it, and padded in bare feet from his chamber, through the anteroom, and to the meeting hall beyond his apartments. There he paused before the door to the guest chamber where Trefor and his friend were sleeping. He wanted to ease open that door and look inside. He wanted to gaze on his son as he slept, to watch him and examine him, and to know him as a father.
But he knew if he opened that door he would not find what he was looking for. In that bedchamber he would find only annoyance. Trouble. A man who hated him for something he hadn’t even done. Yet. The confusion and longing choked him. He stood frozen, unable to decide what to do. Finally, at a loss to know how to feel or what to think, he retreated from the door and returned to his bed, then lay there awake until the square of lighter black on the wall of his chamber had turned to the light purple of sunrise.
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