Like the ghost she pretended to be, she had disappeared.
He started down the corridor, yelling for the steward and the housekeeper. “Mr. Armstrong! Mrs. Armstrong!” He entered the great hall. The lights were coming on all over the manor as servants stumbled out of their beds. Doors slammed, feet pattered. Ian waited to hear the cry that someone had seen her, that Lady Alanna had returned, but heard only a bewildered chatter. Frustrated, Ian bellowed, “Armstrongs!”
The steward hurried into the hallway, tugging a shirt over his head. “Mr. Fairchild, what’s wrong?”
“I saw Lady Alanna. Did anyone else see her?”
Mrs. Armstrong stood behind her husband in her nightcap and a morning gown, and behind her the servants appeared in various stages of dress. Ian saw them exchanging glances.
“I tell you, she was in my bedchamber.” He used his most reasonable tone.
Still he heard a swift murmur of disbelief. “Drunk,” someone said.
“Sir, Lady Alanna is no longer with us.” Armstrong used a soothing tone. “You saw her portrait today, and perhaps dreamed about her—”
“I tell you, she was there.” Ian shook the handful of skirt at them, but they only stared uncomprehendingly.
“’Tis her ghost, then,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “I wondered when it would return.”
Armstrong swung on his wife. “Don’t be daft, woman. There’s no ghost here.”
“And if there is”—Ian touched his neck and held out his fingers, stained with his own blood—“she’s done a good job of trying to slit my throat.”
Behind him he heard a gurgling gasp and a heavy thump. Turning, he saw his father sprawled on the floor in a stupor. As Ian hurried toward him, he heard Leslie wheeze, “Don’t let her come back for me. Please, for pity’s sake, don’t let her get me.”
Vast, restless, and overwhelming, the sea tears at the western coast of Scotland. Fingers of land reach into the water, trying to grasp eternity and losing to the constant grind of the waves. The wind lifts the brine and carries it up, into the Highlands where mist drifts over tall standing stones like silk draped over the finest ladies. Men and women, strangers to the rugged hills, have been lost in that mist, never to return, and around the fires of smoky peat, tales are recounted of mystical creatures who delight in confusing the chance-met travelers. Fairies live in the Scottish Highlands, and elves.
And so, it is said, do witches.
Chapter 2
“She’s a witch, Mr. Ian.”
A bluster of air off the sunlit sea swirled in the capes of Ian Fairchild’s greatcoat as he strode toward the stables. It ruffled his hair and disarrayed his cravat.
“I’m na a man given t’ fancies, but I would be derelict in my duty if I didna tell ye some say she’s an evil witch.” Armstrong’s short legs scrambled to keep up with Ian’s long gait. “Her face withers the barley in the field, she’d just as soon cause a wart as cure one, and what she did t’ Kennie!”
Ian cast a diverted glance at Armstrong. “The blacksmith?”
“Aye. He threw a bit of iron at her—witches abhor iron—and she cursed him.” They reached the stable yard. “And my wife claims Mrs. Kennie says he hasn’t been a true man since.”
Ian understood immediately. “Got a horseshoe where his rod should be, eh?”
Sadly, Armstrong nodded his head. “Badly bent.”
Ian heard shouting, and saw two boys clinging desperately to the reins of his horse. Striding forward, Ian caught the reins and looked into Tocsin’s face. “If you want a fight, pick on someone your own size. For instance, I’ll be glad to oblige you.”
The horse snorted, and quieted, and both boys scrambled onto the fence.
Ian rubbed Tocsin’s nose. “You’re a beauty,” he crooned, and in a swift motion mounted the horse. “Armstrong, the first night I arrived at Fionnaway, I saw a ghost.”
Armstrong flinched at the reminder of Lady Alanna’s midnight appearance. “Aye, and the maids have na dared go alone int’ the cellar since.”
“And I’ve seen evil at work every day since I took up residence with my father. I know how to handle a mere witch.”
“I dunna doubt ye, but if ye must seek a favor from her, Mr. Ian, please promise ye’ll hie yerself back before the dark.”
“What brew does she stir at night?” Ian pulled on his gloves, controlling the horse with tight-held knees.
“At night—that’s when she changes her shape. She transforms from the hideous old crone int’ a bonny woman who enslaves all men who behold her.”
“She’d best keep her evil eye off my rod, or I’ll be no good to her as a slave,” Ian said. “I’ve been told she’s the best healer we have at Fionnaway, so she’ll come to ease my father’s pain.”
“What fool would send an Englishman t’ a Scottish witch?” Armstrong muttered.
“Ah, Armstrong”—Ian leaned out of the saddle—“it was your own wife.”
He grinned at Armstrong’s dismay, then with a word to Tocsin, he raced out into the summer day. In his memory he carried explicit instructions to the witch’s house. In his heart he carried the exaltation of a man escaping a prison.
The moon had come to full and waned again since his arrival, and in that time Leslie Fairchild had proclaimed Ian his heir, and Ian had inspected every inch of Fionnaway. Yet now Ian dreamed of a moment away from the manor, away from the wary servants, and most of all, away from his father.
For that moment, Ian would do anything, even visit a witch.
Her hut nestled deep in the wood, with a thatched roof and drifts of moss all around. The garden sparkled with flowers, and a shed at the edge of the clearing held stacked wood and well-tended rabbit cages. Chickens pecked in the grass. A fire crackled in the fire pit outside, and a rich scent wafted from the iron cauldron. Stones ringed the well—a magic well, perhaps. Ian stared and wondered if he had found the wrong hut in the wrong wood.
Then the witch stepped out of the open door.
She wore dirty brown homespun. A hump deformed one shoulder and her bosom drooped over the belt that circled her thick waist. A large spoon and wickedly sharp fork hung from the rope and clanked as she walked, and the sheath beside them contained a knife of a size to gut a man. Her long hair, dry and gray, caught in the smears of green unguent on her face.
Her face. Good God, it looked like a parched meadow in a drought. Her complexion was gray, too, with furrows between her black brows and beside her red mouth and above her upper lip.
The sight of that countenance would wither a man’s rod, Ian admitted.
She didn’t seem to see him as she hobbled to the kettle. With the spoon she tasted the steaming brew, shook her head, and opened one of the leather pouches that dangled by her hip. Taking a handful, she sprinkled it into the cauldron.
Ian half expected to see colored steam rise and form some ominous shape. Instead the odor of marjoram filled the air.
Oh, an evil, awesome witch indeed. She used herbs in her brew. Dismounting, he led his horse to a shady patch of grass. “Old woman, I have need of your services.”
His presence caused her no obvious consternation. After a single sharp glance, she picked up a wooden bowl from the stool beside the fire pit and filled it. With a tilt of her head, she invited him inside her home and entered, never looking to see if he followed.
He did, of course, tracking the sumptuous odor of vegetables and broth. Ducking his head beneath the doorframe, he said, “The lord of Fionnaway desires succor.”
“I cannot think of any man who deserves succor less,” the old woman said in a creaking voice.
Ian fixed her with a stern and commanding look. The crone stared right back, neither cringing nor remorseful.
So. He could not intimidate her. “Or needs succor more.”
“And why should I do as Ian Fairchild demands?” the witch asked.
So she knew who he was. “No doubt you’ve heard the rumors about me,” Ian said coolly. “That’s a good r
eason to obey me.”
“Rumors.” She snorted with disdain. “Rumors.” Placing the bowl on a sturdy, well-worn table, she ordered, “Eat.”
He shouldn’t. But Ian had been constantly attending Leslie for the past week, catching a bite only when he could. Now the odor of food made his stomach growl. Stripping off his leather riding gloves, he placed them on the table, seated himself on the stool, and picked up the spoon. Discreetly he poked at the concoction.
Stew. It looked like stew.
The witch stood in the shadows in the corner, her arms crossed over her stomach. “Eat! Eat and become my slave forever.”
In a trick he’d been taught as a child, he looked toward her and blurred his vision. He could see clearly when he observed more than the physical, and he knew this woman was lying. With every breath she took, with every movement she made, she was lying.
But more important—today, at least, she had no plans to poison him.
“If you won’t be my slave, eat for your own sake,” she said. “You’ve a lean and hungry countenance, and it’s not comfortable being in the same room with a wolf.”
He sampled the stew, redolent with herbs and garlic. He took another bite, and the flavor convinced him of one thing—the witch should supervise the manor house kitchen, not lurk in a hut in the woods. Fionnaway’s cuisine left much to be desired. “It’s good.”
She smiled, and he wondered what spell she had cast to retain all her teeth, white, sturdy, and young. “It’s enchanted,” she answered. Taking a cloth-wrapped package off the shelf above her, she tossed it to him.
Ian opened it and found a flat piece of bread. Breaking off a chunk, he dipped it in the sauce and chewed it thoughtfully. A fine, nutty flavor spread across his tongue, and he agreed, “So it is.”
The witch moved to the far corner, picked up a pestle and mortar off the shelf crowded with bags, jars, and loose leaves. Holding the bowl against her stomach, she began a steady grinding of stone against stone, leaving him to eat.
When he had satisfied the keenest pangs of hunger, he pushed the bowl away and looked around the room. Climbing roses nodded into the windows. A finely carved chest stood in the middle of the far wall. A rope-and-stick bed hung in one corner, covered with luxurious furs. They provided a comfortable spot for the huge brindle cat snoring in the square of light, which opened one disinterested eye and viewed him with contempt, then stretched and fell asleep once more.
He carefully wiped his beard with his handkerchief, and wished his valet had accompanied him on this trip rather than quitting in a huff, but English servants were quite sniffy about traveling to Scotland. “You’ll come to Fionnaway with me.”
With elaborate care she placed the mortar on the shelf, then hobbled over to remove the bowl from the table. “What do you want me to do about Mr. Fairchild?”
“I want you to ease his suffering.”
“Do you not want me to cure him?” She fixed him with the unblinking stare of the peregrine falcon.
“If you can, but the hand of God is heavy on his neck—”
“The hand of the devil, more likely.” The witch touched her mouth as if she regretted her outburst, but then her hand fell away. “Do you know what Saint Peter will do to Mr. Fairchild when he sees him?”
Ian suspected he did, but he could scarcely believe the witch had the brass to tell him.
“He’ll open the trapdoor and drop him straight into hell.” She struck her chest with her fist. “I recognize your father as one of Beelzebub’s demons, because I’m evil, right to the bone.”
“I’m quaking in my linens.”
“You’d better be.” Then she realized he ridiculed her, and in an ominous tone she asked, “Have you heard what I did to the blacksmith?”
“Kennie the Eel?”
She thrust her head forward and rubbed her palms together. “They used to call him Kennie the Goat.”
“I’ve heard the tale.” He lounged in an attitude of abject boredom. “Is that the worst you can do?”
She gaped indignantly, then snapped, “I can wither your man-parts so small you have to tie them in red yarn to find them!”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “You’ll be a welcome entertainment when you come to the manor.” She’d been too spoiled, this evil witch, by men groveling in fear of their virility. He’d take his chances against her sorcery, and enforce his will as the lord. “You will come to the manor.”
The old woman clasped her hands under the long sleeves of her gown. She didn’t want to obey him. Neither did she want to fight him. Witch or no witch, withered love apples or not, she would lose. “Aye,” she said grumpily. “I will. But why seek help now? He’s been ill since your arrival, and before.”
“Yes, but now he screams and sees things that aren’t there—and he’s afraid.”
Somberly she concentrated on his words, and Ian realized why Mrs. Armstrong had suggested he come here. Perhaps the witch was evil, but her interest soothed Ian. “The Edinburgh doctor who saw my father had never observed agonies such as my father is suffering, and he left me with a bottle of laudanum and instructions to make him comfortable before…the end.”
Shuffling to the stalks of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, she grasped one and yanked, and dried leaves showered her. Crushing a little in her palm, she sniffed it thoughtfully. “Should old Mr. Fairchild die, you think you’ll be the new laird.”
“I will be the new lord.” He fought the base desire, but it burrowed beneath his skin and teased the edges of his mind. He wished his father dead. He wished for the day when he would be free of the taunting, the cruelty, the lacerations of the soul Leslie so skillful applied.
And then…ah, then Fionnaway would be his.
As if she read his thoughts, the witch asked, “What about the good and sweet Lady Alanna?”
Some grievous emotion vibrated in the old crone’s voice, a personal interest he couldn’t place. It gave him an advantage, for after all, a man such as Ian sharpened all his senses in pursuit of nothing more than a continued existence. “Lady Alanna?” He studied his fingernails. “She doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t she?” The witch’s peculiar anxiety increased. “But don’t the farmers talk about her? Haven’t the fishermen spoke to you of her? Haven’t the servants told you stories about her, and all with tears in their eyes?”
She was right. The people of Fionnaway wished for, hoped for, the return of the mistress. It was as if they hoped that telling their tales would bring her back. Worse, they acted as if he could bring her back. As if he could right injustice. He, Ian, bred half a Fairchild and tainted with that ancestry.
“Didn’t you see her ghost?” the old woman whispered.
Slowly he lifted his gaze to hers. Her ghost. No, he’d not seen her ghost. He’d seen her. He had the scar on his throat to prove it. She had been in his bedroom, taunted him, threatened him, been willing to kill him…and why? Because she wanted her heritage back.
Ian didn’t know where Lady Alanna hid. He only knew she was a threat to him, and to these lands that filled the desolation of his soul.
The witch read his thoughts, and echoed them with uncanny precision. “She’s alive.”
“So what if she is? She abandoned her inheritance.”
“Nay, not so! If you knew why she left—”
“Tell me, then. What made the girl run away?”
The witch thrust her ugly face toward his, and the scent of mint clung to her. “Your father, Mr. Fairchild. Your father.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Fairchild,” he said. “That is my father’s name. I am Ian.”
Retreating to her dark corner, she placed the mint on the shelf. “Lady Alanna didn’t want to share that name, either.” Gathering up her mortar and pestle, she looked down at the already ground leaves with surprise, as if she didn’t remember doing them. “Your father announced he would make her his wife.”
Ian barely contained his astonishment. “Leslie? He wanted to mar
ry Lady Alanna?”
“She is an heiress.” She emptied the contents of the mortar into a leather bag, spilling some. Her hands were shaking, and she stared at them as if they were not her own. “As her husband, he would have complete control over her and her fortune.”
“He was—is—her guardian. He already had complete control over her fortune.” And for a guardian to try to wed an underage girl in his care was the lowest of acts—and nothing less than Ian expected.
“But she had no respect for him, and child that she was, she showed it. Her people followed her example, and Mr. Fairchild found himself losing control. So he thought if he took her to his bed…”
A sad state, when a woman as ugly as the witch trembled with revulsion at the thought of Leslie, but Ian understood. Something about his father repulsed, something that grew more vile as the years progressed. “How old was she?”
“She had lived fifteen years when her father died. Leslie arrived on the eve of her sixteenth birthday.” The witch hugged herself and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, reciting the facts in a soft voice quite unlike her previous creaking tone. “He would have wed her on her seventeenth birthday.”
Deliberately he leaned forward. “She’s been gone four years.”
“Aye, four years.”
Slowly he settled back, arranging his elbows on the table behind him and striving for a casual pose. “Four years.” And no matter how he counted, seventeen plus four was twenty-one.
“The gracious Lady Alanna declared she would refuse Mr. Fairchild at the altar, so he thought to ensure her cooperation,” the witch said, oblivious to the direction of his thoughts.
Still dazed by the realization Lady Alanna would soon reach her majority, he fumbled to grasp the witch’s meaning. “He raped her?”
“Not…quite.” The witch smirked at him. “Your father was unable to perform.”
Soon, he would wager, Lady Alanna would return from hiding to toss the Fairchilds off her land, and nothing Ian could do would stop her. “Was that your fault, too, Granny?” he mocked, furious at this turn of events.