Page 1 of Laird of Twilight
Prologue
Scotland, the Highlands, Autumn, 1801
Buffeted by wind gusts, Donal MacArthur struggled as he climbed a rocky hill in moonlight. Hunched against the chill, his plaid billowing and snapping against his trousered legs, he walked along the shoulder of the slope to face a tall concavity in the rock, shadowed black in the darkness. He reached up to grope along a natural shelf formed by slate and gray stone.
There, he had it—the chunk of blue crystal he had hidden there seven years earlier. Clear crystal, a pretty blue agate, a pretty stone more mysterious than some would ever believe. It fit the palm of his hand, its outer crust just rock, its inner heart a delicate cluster of points forming a tiny hollow. Pressing it against a small encrustation in the wall, he felt it slide just so, with a chink and a settle.
He pulled the drape of his woolen plaid closer over his jacket and clamped a hand over his bonnet, for the wind began to whip as soon as he inserted the key—the crystal itself. He waited, knowing this was not his usual appointed time, but they expected him. Every seven years throughout his adult life, he had come here, according to the agreement he had made. Seven years, and seven again, until seven-times-seven was reached. By then, he would be an old man. Tonight, just a year and a day had passed since his last visit. But he had to come back—for this, he would visit again.
Shealways expected him, and welcomed him into her presence, and into her arms. There, he would lose the sense of time for a bit, the sense of himself, his home, his dear ones at Kilcrennan. Inside the hill, he would revel in the pleasures offered, golden wine and ripe fruits, sweet crystalline music, dancing like joyful madness, the laughter as that of angels. Some said that was what they were, the Fey: fallen angels. He could well believe it, given their sweetness and their cruelty.
And the private pleasures with her—sinful, luscious passions, her body perfect and never aging, fitting exquisitely to his own, and he strong despite his years. That sensual feverishness lured him back again, the craving that pulsed through blood and soul and slowed his own aging. He could not resist her, nor had she ever denied him. Lips, touch, thrust, magic—the blend was powerful and deep.
Inevitably, she would release him and he would find himself standing outside the rock again, in moonlight or at dawn. Just Donal the weaver, tall and handsome, blessed in his friends, fortunate in his business; just Donal MacArthur, who as a young man had made a dark bargain with a queen of the fairy ilk.
But this time he returned for a different reason.
Now the rock wall shifted, opened like a door. Light glowed within, and he heard the pipes, the laughter. Oh, he wanted to go inside.Not tonight, he told himself.
“Donal, dearest!” She stood before him, and he dared not even think her name for its power. Inside the threshold, she stood tall and elegant, glowing like a slender moonbeam. Her garments were gossamer, her face and form beautiful. He caught his breath.
“I am here, a year and a day from the last time we met, as agreed. I have come for the return of my son. You agreed to the bargain.”
“Did I?” She laughed, silver music. Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned. The sound of merriment, the fragrances of wine, apples, and cakes wafted toward the entrance. Donal drew breath, tempted.
Then his son appeared, Niall, dark-haired, handsome, and brawny. With him stood the one who had lured him inside, an uncommon beauty, black gloss hair and silver-green eyes. Sensing sadness in her, Donal hoped it was because Niall would be leaving.
“Niall, my own, are you well?” he asked, heart thumping fast.
“Very well, and happier than any man ever was.”
“You must break their power over you,” he began, but Niall shook his head.
“The Fey have won, what’s done is done,” the queen of the hillside said. “Niall has found true love’s enchantment here, something all humans long for. He quite reminds me of you, Donal.” Her eyes gleamed, and lust darkened her lips to rose.
“Do not dare,” Donal growled.
She laughed. “Come inside forever. Come with me.” She opened her arms.
Though it took effort, Donal ignored her to look at his son. “Come out, Niall.”
The young man shook his head. “I cannot cross this threshold now. I gave my promise. I must remain.” He gathered the black-haired beauty close. “I am happy, and will gladly stay forever.”
Donal knew that feeling too well. His heart sank. “Och,my Niall.”
The queen, his own lover, reached out. “Forever would be bliss for us, too, my bonny weaver. Come inside to me.”
He loved her in his way, but shook his head. “I will return at my allotted time, as we agreed long ago. Every seven years for you and I.” He stepped back.
“Fine, then. Oh, the gift! I keep my promises.” She beckoned. A Fey girl appeared beside her, holding a bundle. Niall’s black-haired lover reached out, but the queen snatched it up, pulling the blanket down. “Donal, do take this home with you.”
He saw an infant swathed in glittering fairy cloth, a small, perfect creature with dark hair and wide eyes, so impish and lovely that his heart melted, there and then. “What is this?” he asked. “A changeling, who will be not so lovely a thing when I reach home?”
“No changeling. She is half our kind, half yours.” His longtime lover touched the child’s brow, and a blue glow like a beam of moonlight appeared and vanished. She offered the infant to Donal, stretching her arms through the moonlight. “I have given her a gift. She will see what cannot be seen.”
“The Second Sight.” Such gifts were freely bestowed by the fairies, it was said, though there might be a hidden cost. Donal accepted the feathery weight in his arms, and looked at his son. “Yours?”
Niall nodded. “Your granddaughter. We lend her into your keeping.” His lover bowed her head, and Niall kissed her hair. Donal understood, then, why she was sad. The Fey had good hearts for their own; for humans, too, sometimes.
