Page 37 of Fletcher

Shaw watched as the Finfolk commander accompanied the prince from the labyrinth, urging him toward the water. He had no doubt Jamaran would suffer for doing such, although he’d likely saved Bered’s life just now. He glanced at Nyall, who had one hand tucked behind his back. He didn’t have to look to see that he’d slipped a blade under the back of his belt.

“Ever you must stand second for me,” he told the captain. “Only bring two daggers with you next.”

“Aye. One for your heart, and the other mine,” Nyall said before he stalked away.

Chapter Twelve

At dawn Merrick called off the search for Freja and the white-mouth, but kept his patrollers at the boundaries of the settlement to watch for any errant predators. Bered, who had gone the day before to walk with Shaw, returned in a sulk and retreated to his wing of the palace to entertain his cronies. Jamaran dutifully reported on the near disaster at the labyrinth, but claimed not to have heard what the prince said to the chieftain. Merrick suspected his heir had not gone to persuade Shaw to allow him to claim Mistress Ambrose, but so he might propose another, more significant alliance.

His one, truly maddening problem had nothing to do with any of them.

Once he had settled the day’s affairs, Merrick left the settlement and swam to the fairy pool where Meg often bathed. He acted the fool lurking there and watching for the chamber maid, but the king of the Selseus could not call on a MacMar mortal vassal. After an hour he decided to leave the water and walk the shores, where he might encounter one of the clan’s patrols and ask after the lass.

I saved her, didnae I? ’Tis natural that I may inquire how she fares.

When he saw Shaw and Fletcher standing near the tide pool where the accident had happened, he trotted over toward them. Only when he drew close did he slow his steps. The seneschal stood staring up at the top of the cliffs, his expression worried, while the chieftain eyed him with rather more ire than he usually displayed.

“How fares Margret?” Merrick asked when neither man spoke.

Fletcher finally noticed him and bowed. “She’s resting and recovering, King.”

“The Finfolk cannae claim her for being swept into the bay while gathering oysters,” Shaw said, his tone goading. “You should advise the Prince of Baubles of such before he tests the truce again for no good reason.”

He knew then why the chieftain appeared so surly. “My apologies for Bered’s ignorance. I neglected tell him Mistress Ambrose proved unsuitable for us. ’Twillnae happen again.”

Shaw’s gray eyes narrowed and darkened, and without another word he walked to the stairs and climbed to the cliff top. He stood there for a long moment looking down at Merrick before he vanished from sight.

“Your heir should avoid me and my brother for a time,” the seneschal said. “I shall require a moon so I may calm myself. Mayhap in ten years or so Shaw’s temper shall cool.”

“I’d remind you ’tis been eight centuries since Shaw’s enslavement,” Merrick pointed out, “and he’s only grown hotter and more reckless. Only then you’d punch my face again, and I’d be obliged end you, which would lead to war. May I visit Margret?”

“Och, now I may punch your face,” Fletcher told him, his expression darkening.

“I saved her life, and I’m king.” When he saw the other man scowl he added, “Please. I wish only speak with her a moment.”

The seneschal sighed, and then gestured for him to follow. Instead of mounting the cliff stairs, he walked down the shore and took a trail that led to a small wooden shack surrounding by beds of herbs and flowers. The large openings in the walls showed Meg sitting inside working at a table covered by bundles of sprigs and blooms. A large yellow-brown bruise covered most of the side of her face, and a gleaming salve covered the stitched wound on her jaw.

“You claimed she’s resting,” Merrick murmured, unable to take his gaze from her.

“That, ’tis how she rests, or so she tells me. She cannae bear remaining idle.” The seneschal prodded him with an elbow, and when he looked at him added, “She’s leaving Dun Ard as soon as she’s healed, and shall live with only her kind in another place. Dinnae annoy her, or taunt her, or do anything that may change her mind. Bid the lass a kind, brief farewell.”

His show of anger made Merrick wonder just what more Meg had said to him. “You yet recall I’m king, Seneschal.”

“Aye, and the selfish bastart who’s driven that lass from the only home she’s ken since the wreck brought her here and drowned her sisters,” Fletcher countered, his voice hard as flint now. “’Tisnae only bodily injuries she suffers. Torment her no longer, Merrick.”

The king waited until the other man left before he went inside the shack, startling Meg enough to bring her to her feet.

“Och, ’tis only you.” Shaking her head, she sat back down and coiled a string around a bunch of blooming lavender. “What do you here, King of Fish?”

She spoke as insolent and uncaring as ever. He hated her name for him. He hated more the prospect of never being called that by her again. Why he had ever allowed this scrap of a mortal to wriggle her way into his thoughts, his memories, his very heart, he would never know.

“Seneschal told me you’re going away to live with mortals.” Merrick came around the table to stand behind her. “Why?”

“I’m mortal, and ’tis time I take the path toward happiness.” She kept working. “Duncan says I may travel once he removes the stitches from my face. My thanks for the rescue. Fair day.”

“You reckon you may deceive me?” He took the bunch from her hands and tossed it aside. “We’ve danced about long enough, Margret. Speak the truth.”

She tightened her long-fingered hands into fists.