The Parchment Scroll (12 page)

“Magic,” Jules breathed.

Xander nodded, brandishing a fist. “I agree, lass. It’s all over the room.”

“A masking spell.” Alana frowned, rocking Lexi with more vigor.

“Is that how Claire thought she saw—and talked to—Mairi?” Jules asked.

“Aye, that would do it,” Xander said.

Claire whimpered.

Duncan squeezed her in a tighter embrace, but Claire hadn’t stopped crying any more than her niece.

Can Lexi feel the magic, too?

Angus spilled into the nursery. “Mother, Father! I had a vision.”

All the adults froze.

The baby girl disappeared again, only to pop into her brother’s arms. Damn good thing the kid looked ready for her. He held her in his arms, rocking her like their mother had.

Lexi stopped crying.

“Angus-lad, tell us,” Xander urged.

“The halfling lass—she’s runnin’ on tha beach wit’ my cousin.”

“Rally the men. Mount up, now!” Alex barked.

“She’s taking him into the Fae Realm,” Alana breathed. She had her palm on her son’s forearm.

She didn’t say so, but Jules got the impression she could see—and feel—what the kid had.

“But why?” Claire wailed.

“My brethren killed her lover. They’ll kill Lachlan, too. Bairn or not, he’s human. They will sense him immediately.” Xander said.

“No!” Her sister’s scream was even more anguished.

Jules’ heart thundered as she reached for police professionalism, trying to forget that the child missing was her nephew. Or that Xander had said the little guy’s life was in danger. “I hate that eye-for-an-eye shit. Let’s get this bitch.”

If anyone was offended by her language, they didn’t show it as they rushed from the room together.

The wind rustled Dubh’s mane and Hugh’s loose hair alike as they sat high on the ridge. He should just go home. He had no business watching the MacLeod stronghold, even if he
was
on his own lands and too far away to see anything of consequence. He couldn’t look away, as if her honey locks would appear at any moment. She’d shake her head and glare at him with those beautiful green eyes.

What’re you going to do, if so?

It’d been three days…the three longest days he could remember having to endure.

He chided himself again and again. Still, he didn’t head home.

His stallion hoofed the sandy grass at his feet, shifting his step and giving a low neigh.

“What is it, laddie?” Hugh asked. He patted Dubh’s dark neck, whispering to him to calm. It was unlike his horse to be skittish.

Dubh tossed his head.

Hugh cocked his head to one side as the cool air carried a cry to his ears.

A bairn?

He leaned forward on Dubh’s back, listening harder. The cry became louder, as if a wee one was coming toward him.

Hugh urged his horse to turn, nudging Dubh slowly forward. If a child was lost, he would see him or her shortly. There were not many places to hide, despite the hillside.

But whose child?

There were no homes nearby, and none of the MacDonalds that resided remotely closely to where he was had one so young. He knew his people well, down to the last clansman.

He heard a woman’s voice before he saw her. Her accent wasn’t Scottish, but neither was it odd like his foundling’s. She sounded as if she was trying to sooth the fussy bairn.

“Who goes there?” Hugh called, hand on the hilt of his claymore. They were on
his
lands, after all.

The lass froze when she saw him. She did indeed have a bairn in her arms, but the lad was not a wee infant. He was propped on her hip, his dark hair a mess of curls.

When he noticed Hugh, the laddie squalled even louder, his young face red, tears running down his cheeks.

Hugh’s spine prickled as the lass’s dark eyes widened.

Something’s wrong.

“My laird.” She inclined her head and attempted to bend at the waist, clutching him closer.

The baby yowled.

“Somethin’ wrong with yer wee one?” Hugh straightened and forced his voice even.

She shook her head. “He’s fussy s’all, this fine day.” The lass whispered to the lad, and plastered on a fake smile for Hugh.

Irish.

The lass was Irish.

The bairn shook his little head and pushed away from the woman, howling even louder.

Hugh narrowed his eyes. “What’s his name?”

She shifted on her feet, bouncing him up and down. “He’s named for his father.”

She’s lying.
His gut shouted it. Hugh swung his leg over Dubh’s back and dismounted.

Her eyes went even wider and she took a step backwards as he towered over her.

The wee one screamed louder, his chubby cheeks apple-red. When he struggled in the woman’s arms, something fell at their feet.

Hugh looked down at the same time she gasped.

MacLeod tartan.

When their gazes collided, the Irishwoman whimpered.

“Who does the bairn belong to?”

“Mine. He is mine.”

“Nay. Ye doona’ even know his name.” Hugh made a grab for her but she scooted away. “Give the lad ta me, and I will return him ta the MacLeods. If ye leave now, I’ll tell them I found ‘im on the hillside.”

The woman snarled. “He. Is. Mine.”

Hugh rushed forward and the woman screamed. The bairn cried out, but he was able to get his hands on him. He pinned the lad to his chest, praying he wasn’t hurting him.

The lass gave a yell of rage, and threw something to the ground. A puff of black smoke filled the air.

He coughed, shielding the child’s face against his chest, but the laddie coughed, too. Hugh was dizzy as the air started to clear, but planted his boots in the grass so he wouldn’t fall over or drop the bairn.

The woman had disappeared.

“Magic?” Hugh whispered. He blinked to clear his vision, searching the perimeter, but wasn’t able to locate the child-thief.

He sighed, and met the lad’s gaze. Big blue eyes regarded him, tears streaking round cheeks, but he wasn’t crying any longer. He clutched Hugh’s tunic with two tiny fists.

“Laddie? Are ye well?” An unmanly tremor shot down his spine.

What do I know about bairns?

This one didn’t look old enough to speak, so the question was foolish at best.

Hugh wiped the tears from his face, and the child smiled. For some reason, Juliette flashed into his mind, but he ignored how his heart skipped.

“Let’s get ye home.”

He was just as much of a stranger as the woman had been—he’d bet his favorite sword she’d stolen him—yet the lad seemed content in his arms, as if he knew Hugh meant him no harm. He might have no love for the rival clan, but he’d never hurt a child. Even a MacLeod.

“Who do ye belong to?” Hugh asked as he climbed onto Dubh’s back, the lad nestled against his chest.

Both his rivals—Alex and Duncan MacLeod—were married, so he could belong to either one. Maybe their sister? She too was wed now.

Or perhaps another clansman all together. He had the look of a MacLeod, even without the scrap of tartan. Dark hair and sapphire eyes.

But somehow his flawless little face reminded Hugh of Juliette. Perhaps her sister’s son? If so, the wee one did belong to Duncan MacLeod after all.

The lad cooed in Hugh’s arms, giving life to words of nonsense, and he had to smile. He shook his head. He’d no use for bairns, but this one was adorable.

Hugh frowned when memories of his wife—and what he’d lost—entered his mind. He fought the urge to crush his eyes shut and banished her name. Refused to think about the child they’d lost. What he would look like now. The lad would be ten.

“Nay!” His shout made the tiny child in his arms jump.

Blue eyes misted over and he sucked on his bottom lip. Sniffled.

“Sorry, lad. Doona’ fret. I’m takin’ ye home.” He rubbed the child’s back until he settled again, resting his head against Hugh’s shoulder.

Unfamiliar tenderness unfolded from his gut and crept up. He locked his jaw and fought emotions he had no use for.

Bairns are to be protected.

Hugh gathered him closer, trying to ignore the warm little body against his chest. This wee one was not his own, never would be.

After losing his wife and their bairn, he’d never planned on another. Refused his father’s demands to marry again and provide a MacDonald heir, up to the day his da had finally passed away. He’d made an empty promise to the man on his deathbed—that he would marry again.

He’d probably rot in hell for lying.

Sweet Brenna was certainly in heaven. Holding their child for eternity.

Hugh startled on Dubh’s back as her name floated into his mind.

Nay.

Don’t think of her.

Or remember the fear in her brown eyes the night they’d married. Hugh had been as gentle with her as he could manage. He’d been a fumbling lad of twenty, and she a lass of only six and ten.

He’d only had one previous lover at the time, and she’d been innocent.

Consummation had been quick and awkward, and he’d been afraid to kiss her, though he had when she’d asked it of him.

She gotten with child that very night, and he’d barely touched her afterward. His da had been overjoyed that he’d done his duty so well, and an heir was already on the way.

Then…

Labor had come early. It had been too rough on Brenna.

Hugh closed his eyes as a shudder racked his frame. He never thought of her, as a rule.

The bairn in his arms stirred, blinking large innocent eyes up at him.

He screamed at himself to get it together and brushed the lad’s dark hair from his forehead. “Let’s hie to Dunvegan, laddie.” Hugh was rewarded with a shy smile, as if the wee one had understood what he’d said.

“Halt!” The voice was a shout, and Hugh was greeted by two MacLeods, claymores drawn.

A man equal his height and breadth strode forward. His dark hair was slicked back, and gathered at the back of his neck in a long pony tail. He stopped in front Dubh, sword poised to run them through. “What business have ye at Dunvegan, MacDonald?” he demanded.

“
Laird
MacDonald,” Hugh barked.

“What do ye want?” the guard growled, paying no notice—or respect—to Hugh’s title.

“I’ve found a lad wrapped in MacLeod plaid.”

Immediately the man’s demeanor changed. He sheathed his sword and came closer, inspecting the bairn pinned to Hugh’s chest. “Where did ye find him?” His voice and expression were filled with relief.

“I’ll speak ta yer laird.”

The guard nodded without another word, motioning for his counterparts to open the gates.

Hugh inclined his head and nudged his stallion forward.

A fair-haired lass raised her skirts and hollered as Hugh rode into the MacLeod bailey. She ran right to Dubh’s side, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lachlan!”

The lad turned as his name was called, looking down on the woman who had to be his mother. He reached for her, leaning away from Hugh’s chest.

Duncan and Alex MacLeod dashed from the doors of Dunvegan, on her heels.

“Thank you, thank you!” the lass chanted. Green eyes locked onto his, and Hugh couldn’t look away from their familiarity. This lass had to be Juliette’s sister, Claire.

Hugh nodded and handed the bairn down.

MacLeods surrounded him and his stallion. Horses and riders littered the bailey. They’d been mounting a party—probably to search for the missing bairn.

So he hasn’t been gone for very long. Good.

He spotted the old laird, Iain, as well as a tall, silver-haired man amongst the sea of MacLeod plaid. Many swords were drawn, but the looks on most faces were relief. They all knew Hugh meant them no harm.

He squared his shoulders and met Duncan MacLeod’s gaze. “Looks like ye lost somethin’.”

Duncan strode forward and embraced his wife. Kissed his son’s head, before looking back at Hugh. “Thank ye for bringin’ my son home.” His voice cracked.

Whatever Hugh’s retort, seeing his enemy’s humble sincerity made it dissolve. He accepted the man’s gesture when Duncan reached out and squeezed his forearm.

Alex, the current laird, inclined his head. “I echo my brother. Thank ye for returnin’ the bairn.”

“Where did you find him? Did you get Bridei?”

“Ah, so ye know who snatched him?” Hugh asked, ignoring the child’s mother and meeting his father’s eyes.

“Aye, the seer witch disguised herself with magic and stole my lad from his nursery.” Duncan’s mouth was set in a hard line.

“She used magic to get away from me,” Hugh confessed. “Threw somethin’ ta the ground, then disappeared in a puff of black smoke.” His eyes swept the area before him. He told himself he wasn’t looking for Juliette, but he was.

The MacLeods asked a few more questions he forced answers to, but he was distracted. Wanted to see his foundling. His heart skipped when he saw her cross the bailey to them.

She was wearing trews that fit—dark in color and hugging those shapely thighs. She wore a black corset over a flowing ivory leine. It propped her breasts high and made his cock tingle. Light colored, fur topped deerskin boots went up to her calves.

Feminine. Gorgeous. Mine.

Although she was dressed as a lad, no one would mistake her for one with all those curves. Hugh swallowed a growl. He wished for skirts so no one could see her body.

Juliette was his.

“Hugh.” She inclined her head when she reached her sister’s side, but didn’t smile.

For some reason, it bothered him.

She kissed the bairn’s head, and whispered to Duncan’s wife. There was nodding and low feminine voices that didn’t carry. Another female joined them.

This one had white-blonde, almost silver locks. Long and flowing freely down her back. Her beauty was ethereal. He’d never seen a Fae before, but this woman had to be Fae. The laird’s princess wife, no doubt, as rumor had it. However, Hugh only had eyes for his foundling.

“Juliette.” Her name was out of his mouth before he could help himself.

Hugh swallowed hard when those green eyes settled on him. She came to his side as if beckoned, his heart beating in time with her every step. He couldn’t speak. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth.