Page 52 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

The cart bumped along the road, sometimes rattling Grace’s teeth, but the sight of the rolling moors and wooded hills, shining with dew in the early morning light, was more than enough to make her ignore the discomfort.

They had ridden for half a candle-mark when she recalled a question she had meant to ask, and forgotten in the wake of their conversation. She turned to look at Catriona, then at Niamh. There were resemblances in the structure of their faces, the color of their hair and the way their eyes were shaped, that brought to mind something Catriona had said the day before. “You said you were Niamh’s cousin, yesterday. I didn’t think…”

“That Niamh had kinfolk so far intae the Highlands? Her mother was from a cadet clan that shelters under the MacDuff banner, and ‘tis through her that we’re related.” Catriona smiled. “I was excited tae have me cousin come home, and tae be able tae welcome her.”

“I see. And this… Sorcha… is she also related?” She’d been called the witch of clan MacDuff, so it seemed like she would be, but Grace wanted to be sure. She hardly wanted to insult a witch by assuming things she shouldn’t.

“Aye. ‘Tis a different line, however. The MacBeths have always been more insular. Likely as nae because Sorcha isnae the first fae-touched child the line has borne.”

“Fae touched? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Ye wouldnae, in England. ‘Tis far more common among the clans, fer we’ve the lineage tae appreciate the Gifts. Mind, that’s nae tae say we’ve always treated the fae-touched as we ought, but, even so… we’re less likely tae challenge them or drive them away. Sorcha lives away from the clan largely because ‘tis her own desire.”

Grace nodded. “But… what does fae-touched mean?”

Catriona shrugged. “’Tis different for each child. Each o’ the touched has certain gifts, certain skills. Though ye should ken… they’re nae like those silly stories children tell o’ witches. Proper witches an’ fae-touched dinnae make demon pacts or anythin’ like that. They simply… are what they are, an’ naething more and naethin’ less.”

She might have said more, but they rounded a bend in the road, and Catriona drew the horses to a stop.

There was a woman standing in the road, dressed in a long, flowing garment of dark blue and purple, stitched with intricate designs. Dark, raven-hued hair glowing with soft bluish tints flowed around an ethereal, beautiful face, framing pale skin and eyes so vivid a blue that even the sky above seemed to pale in comparison.

She was the most mesmerizing, enthralling woman Grace had ever seen, like a legend come to life. Even without being introduced, Grace knew who she was. The woman could be no other than Sorcha MacBeth.

Then she smiled, and the expression turned her face luminous, and she held out her hand to the wagon in welcome. “Catriona, Niamh. ‘Tis been too long since we have spoken. Come, join me. I’ve laid a blanket on the moorland heather, with some sweet tea fer us all.”

Her eyes touched on Grace and seemed to read her very soul, but so gently and kindly that it was impossible to be afraid. The smile deepened, just a touch, warm and inviting. “And ye as well, Grace from beyond the border.”

Grace almost stumbled off the wagon. “You know my name?”

“I ken it. I ken much. ‘Tis the way o’ me gift, and me skill.” Sorcha took her hand with a gentle grip that nonetheless seemed unbreakable, and tipped her head. “Ye’ve something o’ the gifts yerself, fer all yer kin have kept ye ignorant. ‘Tis nae wonder yer heart found and followed Niamh’s bright spirit across the borders, time an’ again, for such things will find their way, as they must.”

Grace blinked again. “I… gifts?”

Sorcha shook her head. “Ye’ve other things tae contend with for now. ‘Tis nae easy tae live up tae a name - but Grace ye are an’ grace ye have, inside and out. It only tak’s joy an’ love fer ye tae embrace all ye can become. Find it, and ye’ll give grace, an’ more as well, tae a great many. Lose it, an’ ye’ll lose yerself as well.”

Grace swallowed. She had no doubt the words were a warning, but the riddle-like nature of them puzzled her. “I do not understand.”

Sorcha nodded. “Nae yet. An’ I can give ye little more, save this: Ye struggle tae accept the destiny yer heart has led ye tae, but if ye cannae grasp it an’ hold it close, then ye’ll face neathing save grief. Everything turns on acceptin’ that which once ye feared, an’ allowin’ fer love where ye think naething can bloom.”

Grace wanted to ask another question, but Sorcha turned away and took Niamh’s hand to help her from the cart. “Let’s have a look at ye then, though I ken already naught is wrong.”

Niamh followed Sorcha to the blanket on the soft grasses of the moor, and sank onto it. “I ken what ye said, the blessing ye gave, but yesterday, there was some pain, and I…”

“And ye wish tae be certain. ‘Tis wise o’ ye, fer even the greatest blessing can turn upon the wind, if the right forces are arrayed against it. Even me blessings arenae proof against all ills, nae even when concentrated in a moon-bright potion.”

Sorcha sank next to the blanket beside Niamh and laid a hand on her belly. Her expression relaxed, her gaze drifting into the distance, staring at things only she could see. Grace opened her mouth to ask, but Catriona caught her gaze and shook her head. Grace closed her mouth and followed the healer’s lead as the other woman settled onto the blankets an arm’s length away from Niamh and Sorcha.

After a moment, Sorcha’s eyes cleared, and she laughed, a merry almost bell-like sound. “Och, ‘tis good news indeed, though ye may yet rue it. ‘Tis nae illness that causes the ache, but strength. Yer bairn was shifting in the womb, restless already fer the first breath o’ life.”

Niamh seemed to sag with relief, as much as she could in her current state. Her hand covered the swell of her belly with obvious affection. “I… but I have felt the bairn kick afore, and it didnae feel so…”

“Och, ‘twas nae a kick, but rather a stretch, like a cat on a windowsill. Yer bairn is well an’ whole and strong, and eager tae come intae the world. ‘Twould come early if it could, but the blessing holds it like swaddlin’ still, fer early babes often struggle, an’ I promised ye a healthy an’ easy birth fer yer firstborn.”

Niamh smiled wryly. “So, I am tae look forward tae two more months o’ this?”

“Mayhap, mayhap nae. I can make a tonic tae help the babe rest more easily within ye. Or Catriona can mix it.” Sorcha lowered her hand. “Fer now, tea an’ good company under a blue sky on the moors is the best I can offer ye.”

“Then ‘tis more than enough, especially when coupled with yer reassurances.” Niamh hugged the woman. Sorcha stiffened slightly with apparent surprise, then leaned into the embrace and returned it.