Page 2 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

The storyteller blinked, and just like that, the magic was gone.

“That’s all the story needs,” he snapped.

“All it needs?” she yelped. “Where’s the story? The plot? The twist?”

“Twist?”

“Yes, there has to be a twist.”

The storyteller narrowed his eyes. “All right, then. Hear this. The Wolf comes every twenty years, they say. He came two decades ago and stole the first daughters of each laird on this very night, the Leanan Festival. There are lots of stories about who he was and what vengeance he sought. The most popular story is that he’d been wronged by one laird and chose to punish them all. Nae one of those women returned, and nobody kens what became of them.”

A long moment of silence followed.

Daphne shivered. She’d heard this part. Her mother had told her only hours ago, while swallowing back tears, that her aunt was one of the women who’d disappeared. Hearing it twice made the story a little more real. Unpleasantly real.

It wasn’t nice to hear the storyteller turn it into a tall tale, something to scare the women.

“That’s a myth, everybody kens it,” Jeannie snapped.

But was it, really? It had been twenty years since the Wolf struck, and according to the gossips, he’d be prowling tonight, looking for first daughters. And Daphne was a first daughter. So, where did that leave her? Where would she be tomorrow? Dead or married? Were those her only options?

Either way, her life was over.

She rolled onto her back, the grass crunching damply beneath her. She stared up at the sky, the stars blurring together. She would not think of the Wolf. There was no proof he’d be here tonight.

The whisky and wine she’d drunk earlier in the evening felt heavy in her stomach, making her dizzy. There’d been dancing, too, but this time she wasn’t permitted to dance. A woman couldn’t really dance with anyone but her betrothed the night before her wedding, and Daphne’s betrothed didn’t care for dancing.

Whether the Wolf shows up or nae, this time tomorrow, I’ll be married.

A married woman couldn’t dance either, not without her husband’s permission. And Daphne’s husband wouldn’t give her permission to do anything; she was sure of that. After tomorrow, she might as well be dead.

No, not dead. Something in between. Not dead, but not quite alive, either.

A surge of nausea tightened her gut. Swallowing, Daphne hauled herself to her feet.

“Going to get some air,” she mumbled, but nobody took notice.

She hobbled off into the dark, her legs stiff, her back aching.

The more she walked, the more her limbs loosened. The queasy feeling disappeared. Clear night air flooded her lungs, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke, mulled wine, beer, gingerbread, and pies.

Her foot caught on a root, and she stumbled, cursing. With the light of the fires fading behind her, it was harder to see, even with the silvery moonlight.

Then a man’s laugh floated towards her.

Pausing, Daphne glanced back over her shoulder. A group of men, about four of them, were walking together a little way behind her. The laughter came again, as if somebody had tried to stifle it.

The sick feeling rushed back, this time heavy with fear. Surely the Wolf wouldn’t have accomplices. He’d take women alone, wouldn’t he?

Daphne began to walk faster.

Everybody knew the story of the Leanan Festival. An old laird had met his wife here long ago and fallen madly in love. Ever since, a celebration was thrown every year. The Love Festival, some people called it, since plenty of people found love in one way or another. Marriages took place, babies were conceived, people got drunk and did stupid things.

And, yes, bad things happened, too. Especially after the sun had gone down and most people had gone home.

Daphne peered over her shoulder. The men were still there. They’d stopped laughing now and were walking in silence. It was too dark to see their faces, but somehow she knew that it was her they were following.

She could try doubling back, but they’d stop her. She knew they’d stop her.