“We are sons of Scotland.” Malcolm’s chin lifted, his shoulders straightening. “Born and bred. But our father came to this land as Viking.”
“Then you are Northmen.”
“As you are Elven?” Patrick spoke, his back still to her.
It boded well that they knew of her kind. Elesyria crossed the floor, stopping less than a foot from the men.
“I haven’t been called such for longer than I care to admit.” Not since she’d last interacted with a Northman. How many centuries agohadthat been? “My branch of the family prefers to think of ourselves as Faerie.”
A sort of harrumphing noise escaped Malcolm’s lips and he crossed his arms in front of him. “Ridiculous,” he claimed, though he didn’t sound as sure of that as he tried to appear.
Good. And now she would have the truth of that guilt surrounding him like a cloud.
She reached toward Malcolm, lifting her arm to touch her fingers to his temple, his cheek. He stood still, as if his body had turned to stone, his eyes boring into her, his pride preventing any movement.
There it was. Ripples of thick, oily guilt—not for what he’d done himself, but guilt for what he felt he should have done. For what he felt he should have been able to prevent.
“Who are you, Malcolm MacDowylt?” She voiced the question, more to herself than to those present, as her fingers moved to his shoulder and then, ever so lightly, danced over his heart.
Pain lanced into her fingertips, like nettles of fire stinging her skin. She jerked her hand away, her gaze tracking to the reddened skin of her hand and back again to his eyes.
He seemed as surprised as she by what had just happened, grasping her shoulders with both his hands. “Are you well, my lady?”
A Faerie could not be harmed in the Mortal world. Most especially not a Faerie in full possession of her powers. Not unless . . .
Again she lifted her hand, careful to hover over his heart this time, not to actually touch that spot.
“Ah,” she whispered. Had she been more intent on the search and less so on what she expected to find, she would have felt it before.
It was not a question ofwhothis man was, but ratherwhathe was.
More than Scotsman. More than Northman. More. Other. Strong Magic, old Magic surrounded him, raging in his blood.
At least she had some of her answers now. This man before her was no vessel of evil. He had done what he thought best for her Isabella, and he carried on his shoulders the weight of that decision.
It was reward rather than retribution she owed him.
But how in the name of Danu did one go about rewarding a descendent of the old gods themselves?
“I am satisfied with what I’ve found.”
The barest tip of his head acknowledged her comment. “Then you will be leaving us soon to return to . . .” Malcolm paused, his eyes flickering to his brother and back again as he let the word linger a moment, as if in question. “To your own home.”
“Not yet.” She patted his hand and gifted him with her most pleasant smile. “I believe I’d like to get to know you a little better first. After all, my son, by virtue of your marriage to my daughter, we are family, are we not?”
More important, her work here was not yet finished. Not until she could find that which would make Malcolm MacDowylt a happy man.
Five
CASTLEMACGAHAN, SCOTLAND
1294
WHERE COULD THEannoying woman have gotten herself off to this time?
Patrick strode through the darkened castle corridors, taking little care to hide his irritation. For the last week it had seemed as though he couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into Elesyria waiting there, but now that he actually sought her?
Nowhere to be found.
