My face must be reddening to the same shade as my birthmark. “And I with him.” My words were unchaste. Not maidenly. Maybe even crude.
But I am fae. Propriety does not govern our behavior, and I could not help but speak the truth.
The baron leaned away and raised his eyebrows. “You speak boldly. Let us hope your mannish demeanor accompanies a mannish intellect.”
Half a dozen even less maidenly words would I have spoken then, but I only said, “I will do my best.”
“Good.” He leaned back slowly, the grace of a beast of prey who need not hurry. He could devour me at any time. “The bastard needs my permission to marry.”
In my shock, I choked on nothing.
“He is not my heir,” the baron continued, “nor will he be, while my legitimate offspring still lives. There is no reason Thomas cannot marry whom he likes. But he does need my permission.”
My lips parted. I could see the rope hidden beneath the cover of leaves, but it still might not prevent me setting off the trap.
Can I even marry Thomas Shepherd?Surely, we could not marry in the kirk, as Christians do. However, we might exchange vows, and consummate our love, thus to be handfasted and continue our lives together.
We could leave this iron-tainted manor house, the crosses on the wall, and the insipid Margaret of Roxburgh far behind.
A flush spread across my body, all the way to my toes. That tiny shepherd’s hut, the dog and the flock, and the lives we had built there... they could endure. Not forever, nothing mortal lasts forever, but the baron offered me the gift of time.
After all, I have made my claim. Thomas Shepherd belongs to me.
“I can see from your face how welcome the idea is to you,” the baron said. “You ought to learn to school your expression.”
If he only knew how I schooled my expression, how my face betrayed nothing of my true self. I inclined my head but did not apologize. It would have been a lie.
“Thomas shall have my permission to marry whomever he wishes, provided he continues not to be my heir.”
“Not your heir.” Meaning Thomas could not be the baron’s only son. That Malcolm must survive.
He twisted his hand in the air. “That is where you come in. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He bargained the happiness of one son for the life of another. Thomas he had abandoned, cast out while he was still a boy. Now he pulled him back into play, just another chess piece on the board.
It sounded like an unfair bargain, and we of Faery never enter those.
But the advantage was mine. With the power of Faery and Mairi Grieve’s knowledge, I did not see how I could lose.
For the shepherd king, I would risk nearly anything. I had claimed him. He belonged to me.
“You wish me to treat your son—”
“I wish you tocuremy son.” He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. “I reward results, not mere effort.”
The storm flickered beneath the surface of my skin. This weak mortal man asked of me what should have been impossible, in return for what I had already claimed.
“And if I fail?” I swallowed, hating the power he still held over us.
“Then it’s out of the manor you’ll go.Alone.”
Twenty-Six
I am not a mother, nordo I think I shall be. Certainly, I was not then. Had not even come close. I healed only: my job to protect, to treat, and to cure. Yet there has always been in me something most protective of the young ones. They are like striplings in a dense forest, struggling to reach the sunlight so they can grow. Like the mother tree, when the world seeks to stunt her saplings’ growth, I will heal and sustain them, that they live to grow strong and reach the sky.
I am not meant to be parent to only a few or one, but to look after all.
