Mariette And The Cowboy (Western Night Series 2) (38 page)

Angus turned to his daughter. "The Sheehy clan is a great ally to us," he explained. "Fearsome friends in battle. They know certain things that others do not."

"Witches, the lot of them," Artair said harshly. Fiona started in surprise at her brother's casually cruel words, and Angus sent him a corrective glare.

"They are friends to the earth," he said. "It's not for us to understand."

Artair snorted in disregard, and Angus pressed further.

"It has been too long since I have extended an invitation to them, and now seems like the perfect time."

"I suppose you may be right," Artair replied bitterly. "At least with the Sheehy's around, Fiona will look like a dull nursemaid in comparison."

Chapter 2

One week later, Fiona discovered that there had been another killing on her way to the market to sell some of her eggs, The first stone has whizzed past her ear and landed somewhere in the meadow grass before her. She looked at it curiously, before she felt something hit the back of her knees. It wasn't hard enough to make her fall, but she stumbled and whirled around to face her assailants. It was a group of boys no older than twelve; they all stared at her with dark, hateful eyes.

“You did it again,” one of them said with the simple cruelty of a child. Fiona stared at them in confusion, and because of that she missed the quick movement of the child’s wrist, and felt a burst of pain enflame her right cheek. She brought her hands up to her face, feeling something wet beneath her fingertips. She didn’t know whether or not the liquid was blood or tears.

“I didn’t do anything,” Fiona said, although she knew that it was pointless to say otherwise. She could recognize one of the boys as being a shepherd’s son, while another belonged to one of the cattle drivers. The cattle driver’s son’s face told her all she needed to know, that this most recent killing had not happened to the sheep.

“Why can’t you just leave the animals alone?” Another boy asked. “We don’t like witches around here, and my da says that you’re one.”

“He’s wrong,” Fiona heard herself say. She regretted it almost instantly as she saw the look on the children’s face change from something casually cruel to something much much darker. Upon seeing the tide change, she took a step back in fear. 

“Witch!” One of the boys cried, and threw another stone her way. It hit her hard in her shin, hard enough to make her stumble, the eggs cracking against the gravel of the path. She looked at the broken yokes, a bright orange red like spilled sunshine.  She lay there for a moment, desperately hoping that they wouldn’t advance, desperately hating herself for being too scared to run.

              She could feel their angry stares on the back of her neck, could hear the angry whispers of “witch”, although she wasn’t fully sure if they were saying it out loud, or if she was repeating their taunts in her head. It could have been either. She heard the quiet sound of a stone rubbing against the earth as it was picked up. She heard their footprints. She closed her eyes against the violence that was to come.

              “Hey! Lads! What are you doing to that lady?” A voice that she didn’t recognize sang through the air, biting in its authority. She listened to the crunch of the gravel beneath his boots as he approached before finding the courage to lift her head.

              The first thing she noticed was that he was tall, taller than her brother, and lean. He stood with a confidence that, on any other person, might be construed as arrogance. The stranger wore his belief in himself too well for that, however. His hair was a long reddish blond, with little braids adorning his hair. He placed himself between Fiona and the angry boys with firm feet. The boys just stared.

              “That’s no way to treat a lady,” the stranger said. One boy who had his arm wound back, prepare to throw, lowered his arm and nodded dumbly at the man.

              “Now get out of here, you devils, before I find each and every one of your fathers and insist that they tan all of your hides!”

              She should have felt relief as the boys turned and ran, but instead something else, something fluttery and terrifying gripped her heart as she realized that they had left her alone with the mysterious stranger. He knelt down to her level, gently placing a hand on her arm.

              “Are you alright, lass?”

              It took a moment for her to realize that the stranger was talking to her, although she was staring directly into his eyes. Such strange eyes they were, a golden brown more gold than brown. She took a deep breath and moved her leg. Her shin hurt plenty when she moved it, but it was nothing more than a bruise and she thought she was otherwise intact. The stranger winced as he reached over and touched her cheek.

              Pain exploded along her cheekbone as though someone had thrust a red hot poker into her eye. She hissed in pain and he drew his hand back.

              “I’m sorry, m’lady, but your cheek...looks like one of those boys is an expert marksman.”

              “They always seem to be when they have hatred on her side.” She moved to her knees and began to struggle to rise, and the mysterious stranger had moved to her side and helped her, something she both appreciated and loathed.

              “But who could hate you?” The stranger asked. He sounded genuinely confused at such hatred,and Fiona tried not to laugh out loud. How had he not heard about the strange witch girl of clan MacCaig? Who else would be found in the middle of a road, nearly getting stoned to death by children by her?

              “Plenty,” was all she could respond. “Everyone thinks I’m a witch.”

              If this surprised or terrified the man, it didn’t show, instead he smiled and helped her along the path. “I hardly think that’s any reason to throw rocks at a person.”

              “I’m
not
a witch,” she said through gritted teeth.

              “Either way,” the man replied. “It’s rude.”

              She turned to study his face again, trying not to be taken in by how handsome he was. Was this one of the members of Clan Sheehy? They were not due to arrive to the village until tomorrow, but this mysterious highland warrior could not have come out of the blue for no reason.

              “You must be one of our visitors,” she said after a moment. He smiled at her.

              “You would be correct,” he replied. “And you must be the very flower of Clan MacCaig?’

              “Not particularly,” she replied. “A wilted flower more like.”

              “Not at all.” He smiled at her and part of her felt incredible relief. This man, this warrior of another clan, had no idea who she was. Her mind raced with the possibility of being whoever she wanted at that very moment.

              “Well, my wilted flower, do you have a name?”

              “Moira,” she said, saying her mother’s name. “Of Clan MacCaig, of course. And what is yours?’

              He smiled and took her hand. “Callum, of Clan Sheehy.”

              Slowly, he raised her hand to his lips, and as they touched the delicate skin of the back of her hand, it felt as though fire shot through her. She let out a little gasp in surprise, and he laughed.

              “Would you like to take a walk in the meadow with me?” He asked her kindly. There were several reasons why she knew it was a terrible idea to do so, but at the moment the feeling of warmth that had overtaken her chased it out of her  brain and left her dizzy. She nodded. He smiled like a gentleman and threaded his arm through hers, helping her off the path and through the wildflowers that had started to grow.

              There was a wild beauty in the highlands at this time of year where the winter was a distant memory and flowers bloomed. The pain Fiona had felt at the hands of the children had disappeared in light of this recent development, there was she, being escorted by a handsome man, while he listened to her talk about anything that came to mind.

              She told him about her father, although left out several important details such as his position in the clan, and changed her brother’s age to be that of a much smaller child. He was smart and clever, saying a clever word or two, and Fiona found that she enjoyed his company more than she had ever expected. He was kind, and as they wandered so did her mind.

              What did Callu Sheehy expect from her? Did he simply want a walk, or was he luring her into something far more nefarious. More importantly, if he did have designs on her virtue, did she care? He was handsome and gallant, she was tremendously un-marriageable, would it truly be a scandal if she lay with some faceless warrior of Clan Sheehy?

              Once that touched her mind, his lack of advances infuriated her. She tried to arrange herself in the most attractive way possible so that she may catch his eye, she tried to laugh as prettily as the girls in the village did when they were capturing the heart of the boys,  but he was infuriatingly thoughtful.

              Something caught her eye and dragged her out of her mentally pouting state. Pale sprouts of heather poked up only a few feet away from them, and she let go of his arm to make her way there.

              “Moira?” He asked as she knelt beside the plant. Her heart fell. Pale though the flowers may be, they were still clearly purple.

              “Not white,” she said to him as he knelt beside her.

              “I don’t understand,” he replied.

              “White heather is a sign of love and good fortune. I’ve spent so many years looking fora sprig of white heather.”

              His golden eyes were unreadable as he studied her face, and to her surprise, very suddenly, he leaned down and gave her a simple kiss on her lips.

              It was the first time Fiona had ever been kissed, and her heart felt as though it would explode with nervousness. How many girls had this man kissed in meadows before? Would he realized that he would be the first one to ever kiss her? He broke the kiss and stared long and deep into her eyes.

              “That’s the first thing you’ve said that’s truly sounded like you since we’ve started our walk,” he told her.

              She looked up at him for a long time, how could this strange understand her so easily and so soon? She felt breathless, like everything was too tight, too close, and the only thing she wanted was to feel his lips on hers again,

              Fiona threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and after a moment of hesitation she felt his arms wrap around her waist as he moved to lay down, pulling her on top of him. What little experience she had seemed to not matter at all once her instinct took over, and soon she was gripping him as hard as he had gripped her, holding him as tightly and he held her. She felt his warm hands, so warm it was as though he were on fire, reach up to tug at the laces of her bodice. She hesitated for a moment, could she go down this path that she could not return?

              He paused as well, those golden eyes staring up into hers. Callum seemed nervous, as though he were afraid that he may break her, and she could feel the confusion in his muscles as he debated  letting her go, but desperately wanting not to.

              “Is this alright?” he asked her seriously, staring into her eyes. She felt as though she had a fever, and kissing him more was the only way she could feel well.

              “Yes,” she whispered to him, and helped him unlace her bodice.

              She had never felt so free as she did that that moment, as his hands, so warm and rough circled around her breasts. No one had ever touched her like this, she had never even touched
herself
like this, and now this expert man did it with a slow, practiced grace.

              Fiona couldn’t say anything, and didn’t want to, and her hands, once so hesitant and nervous, moved to unlace his breeches. He gasped as she wrapped her hands around the hard length of him. It was startling to see a man wanting her, it was startling to want a man as much as she did.

              “Please,” she whispered to him, moving to her back and pulling him to her. “Please do it.”

              She may never know the happiness of marriage, but she was going to know what it felt like to make love to a man. He rolled on top of her, bracing himself lest he crush her, and guided himself gently inside. It didn’t hurt, not entirely, but felt like something, new, something strange, and as he gently began to move inside of her she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and matched his rhythm.

              He was so warm, so hot to the touch, he felt like he was scorching her while he moved. She cried out, not in pain, but with a pleasure she did not think she would ever be able to understand. She knew what it meant now, and she would carry that wonderful secret to her grave if she had to. He tried to remain gentle, but there was something strange about him, a feral intensity as she stared into his eyes, it scared the largest part of her, but a smaller, louder part loved every minute of it.

              When he was done, he rolled off of her and stared at her in wonder.

              “Who are you?” he asked as she lay with a contented smile upon her face.