Page 22 of Connal

The Finfolk man moved like a cat as he approached the pool, and placed what looked like a huge clamshell on the rocks at the edge. “Our king bid me bring his wedding gift for your lady, Lord MacMar.”

Looking into the man’s face made Valerie blink, for he had the stunning looks of a teen heart throb, and the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. He also appeared to be much younger than his king, probably still in his teens.

“Please tell King Merrick I appreciate the, ah, present,” she said.

Jamaran bowed his head, locked his gaze with Connal’s for a long moment, and then left as silently as he had arrived.

“Merrick gives food as gifts?” she said, easing out of the laird’s arms and paddling over to the side. To avoid another clinch she hoisted herself out of the pool, and bumped the edge of the clamshell, which opened and spilled a huge swath of pink beads onto the moss. She picked up one and held it up as she saw its soft, rosy glow. “Oh, my. They’re pearls. What a wicked gift.”

“’Tisnae evil,” Connal said, looking bewildered. “Finfolk covet pearls over every other gem.” He glanced down at the pile. “’Tis enough to pish their whole settlement.”

“But pished means drunk.” She’d learned that much of Scottish slang, and when he nodded she asked, “Do the Finfolk make some kind of liquor out of pearls?”

The laird scooped up a handful. “No. They eat them. Pearls bestow bliss of uncommon depth and duration on their kind.”

Valerie put down the pearl she was holding. “Okay, but I’m not going to eat them.”

“They pish only Finfolk males, and ’tis their coin as well. For payment of a single small pearl they’d toil a day.” He began scooping the gems back into the shell. “In truth, Merrick gifted you a fortune in the eyes of his men.”

“I’m still not sure what that means, if anything,” she admitted.

He closed the clamshell and placed it in her hands. “He’s made you rich in the eyes of his people. With your fair coloring and beauty, any Finfolk male would fight for the right to transform you and take you as mate. I reckon Merrick also shall make this gift known to everyone in the bay.”

“Why would he make me an heiress?” Suddenly she got it. “This is a warning.”

“Aye.” Connal’s cold eyes warmed with respect. “Should we choose no’ to wed, every Finfolk male without a mate shall come for you and your fortune.”

She imagined being dragged off into the water by a bunch of Merricks fighting over her. “How many Finfolk males are there out there?”

“Too many.” He cradled her hands with his. “If we cannae return you to your time, my lady, I think we must wed, and soon.”

Valerie had an image of Dale waiting for her at the altar. Her husband had been Episcopalian, so she had agreed to the church wedding he’d wanted. As she’d repeated the traditional vows, she’d cringed a little, because she didn’t share his religious beliefs. Yet they had actually remained married until death had parted them. He’d chosen to die rather than stay married to her. Now the laird was proposing.

He’s handsome, and he tries to be kind, but we’re both still in love with dead people.

She met his gaze. “We still have a couple of weeks. Let’s find a way to send me back.”

Waves crashed against the sides of the boat as Fiacail emerged from the deck cabin to see most of her sisters huddled under the stern’s upper deck. Most looked pale and wan from spending their first day at sea discreetly puking in the hold, which now stank. A few of the hardier Cait Sith attended to the work of sailing the large vessel, thanks to the sailors they had abducted, killed and taken on their shapes and memories. None of them looked happy, and when sea water sprayed them they hissed and swore.

Speal staggered over from the rail, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Our princess yet sleeps?”

“Aye. She bid me no’ rouse her until nightfall.” She inspected her sister’s rough garb. “You need a bathe and a change.”

“I need a cleaver and a bucket of fish to hack to pieces––or a mortal. Did you bring any mortals?” When Fiacail shook her head Speal’s gaunt mortal face twisted with displeasure. “Dearg refuses come on deck. You should kill her now.”

Suspecting she was right, Fiacail shook her head. “She’s the only one who’s lived on the northern isles. I’ll attend her.”

Opening the hatch, Fiacail climbed down the ladder into the top level of the hold. Clusters of Cait Sith too sickened to work lay moaning in the shadows, while one small, plump figure paced back and forth between them. She resembled a pretty young lass, her favorite type of mortal to murder, and wore silk skirts heavily flounced with lace that swirled with every step.

Stepping into her path, Fiacail folded her arms. “Must you?”

“Go away, Sister.” Dearg produced one of her namesakes, a dagger of uncommon beauty with a jeweled hilt. “Unless you wish me gut you where you stand. No, wait. Stay. I shall gut you. ’Twill improve my mood.”

“Do you reckon the princess should reward you for ending me?” She snatched the blade out of her small hands. “Stop making such a fuss. ’Tisnae as if any of the rest of us wish go sailing.”

Dearg sidled up to her. “Drop me at the next port. Truly. I need stab something a great many times.”

“Aye, and we need that.” Fiacail tapped the underside of her chin with the tip of the knife. “Our lady sovereign means to slay the MacMar Clan when we find them. You shall have all the big, strapping mortals to hack apart that you desire.”