Page 29 of Fletcher

“Aye, right.” He couldn’t see her face, but from the sound of her voice she seemed to know and approve. “My thanks.”

Meg sniffed. “Find me another place soon, else I run off with the ferryman.”

Fletcher carried his brew to his work room, where he went through the stack of messages left by the cote keeper and the clan’s scribe. As he read through them he couldn’t focus on their meaning, or the tasks he needed to attend to in order to resolve them. All he kept seeing were those lovely green-brown eyes glowing with pleasure, and his skin juddered with the phantom touch of those small, clever hands.

“You seem well and pleased this morn,” a tired voice said from the doorway.

He glanced over at Shaw, who stood leaning on a walking stick and had his injured foot swaddled in bandages and shod in an oversize slipper. “Couldnae pry out all the spines? Mayhap you’ll give urchins a wide berth next time you patrol the water.”

“You nag me like a poor-tempered wench.” The chieftain limped inside and perched himself on a stool by Fletcher’s desk. “Nyall and that white-haired bastart didnae find the man-killer, and now Ysal’s widow’s gone missing.”

He set down his brew. “What says the laird?”

“We’re to join the search with the Finfolk.” Shaw sighed. “Merrick and his men shall swim the shelf and deeper waters. The captain’s doubled patrols, and sent half to walk the shores and inspect the shallows.”

Such an effort would require most of the stronghold’s sentinels and guards, which meant organizing the vassals to stand watch and man the gates in their place. “I’ll attend to Dun Ard’s defenses.”

“Aye.” His brother leaned forward. “I came to your chamber last night to relate the news, but you’d gone missing as well. Dare I ask where you slept when I already suspect ’twas in those wee arms?”

Fletcher had always been closer to Shaw than anyone else in the clan. Although he didn’t understand him entirely, he trusted him. “You shallnae tease her. She’s gentle and timid.”

The chieftain chuckled. “Och, I’ve watched the wee beauty set you back on your heels with her scolding. Now she makes you sound the husband.”

“She doesnae love me, nor I her.” Admitting that made him uneasy, but Shaw knew only too well why he could not risking loving any woman. “’Tis but comfort we give each other.”

“Och, if you’re expecting me judge you, seek another court,” his brother said, and reached forward to cuff his shoulder. “I’m too lame for the search, so send for me if you need aid herding the vassals.”

Fletcher watched him hobble out, and then contemplated the lukewarm remains of his brew. He had a dozen pressing tasks waiting for his attention, and twice as many with the search for the widow would create. Yet try as he might he could not stop himself from thinking on his curse.

In boyhood Fletcher had stayed quiet and kept to himself, for his mortal weakness rendered him blind to everyone’s expressions as well as their faces. After Shaw had been taken on the mainland by Pritani raiders he realized he might never again be reunited with his older brother, who along with Connal was his only full blood-kin. From that point on Fletcher had forced himself to spend more time with the other boys in the clan. With females, however, he remained shy and uncertain.

As he grew older he watched other clansmen taking lovers from the nearby villages and crofts, and while they never wed they enjoyed trysts with willing young lasses. Although he often heard from Connal that he was almost as handsome as Shaw, he wondered if that were true, for he could not even see his own face reflected in wash basin water. Then, too, was the problem of his blindness to the faces of others, which made an elderly wrinkled grandmother and young, beautiful maiden look the same to him.

If you cannae tell the difference, lad, I’d happily show you.

Shoran, one of the salt-maker’s daughters, often flirted with Fletcher when he came to collect the clan’s portion. She seemed to hang on his every word, and while he couldn’t see her face, she smelled of the sea and had a gentle, teasing touch. In time she coaxed him into meeting her at one of the fairy pools, where she had promptly seduced him. His first woman had been kind about his awkwardness, and taught him with generous humor how to please a lover. After several such trysts Shoran confessed she’d lost her heart to him, and he believed himself to be thoroughly in love with her. Just after her confession, word came from the salt maker that Shoran had died suddenly in her sleep. Standing by the grave of his lover had been one of the worst moments of Fletcher’s life.

So he’d assumed.

His second lover, Tilly, came to him ten years after that, when her parents sent her to serve as a household maid. In that time Connal had asked Fletcher to serve as his seneschal, and he had still been learning how best to manage the household. Tilly, who had grown up in the large croft, often told him about the things her màthair and aunts had done to make easier the work of looking after their large families. He came to rely on her quick thinking and practicality, and enjoyed working with her at his side.

I may as well be your wife, for all that we’re in each other’s pockets all the day.

One night Tilly slipped into his chamber while he was sleeping and climbed naked into his bed. She promised she’d only dally with him until her parents found her a suitable husband, but after that rejected every offer that came from the croft. At last she admitted she would only ever love Fletcher, so he might as well accept her as his. Although he knew with his immortality that their time together would be limited, he agreed, for he loved her as well.

He closed his eyes as he recalled waking up at dawn after they had pledged to marry, only to find Tilly dead beside him.

Duncan had been summoned to examine the maid, and found no injury responsible for her end. He also scoffed at Fletcher for blaming himself when he mentioned that both of the women he’d loved had died immediately after he’d offered his affection to them. The deaths of the women were tragic, but he could not possibly be to blame. Shaw’s return to the clan helped Fletcher set aside his guilt and sadness. From that day on he only bedded a willing female when he was in need of release, but never the same lass twice. Since all of them survived the experience, he later decided that the healer had been correct in his thinking. Although the two women he’d loved had died, his affections could not kill anyone. He’d gone so far as to talk to Shaw about it, and his brother had agreed.

Trust me, lad. If anyone in our clan’s cursed, ’tis me.

When Fletcher met Aili during a trip to the mainland he still believed that to be true. The widow of a well-to-do boat builder, the older woman had taken over the running of the business, and drove a hard bargain when the MacMar hired her and her brothers to build a new ferry for the island. During several trips to check on the progress Fletcher accepted Aili’s invitations to join her at her home, first to share meals and whiskey, and then her bed. She’d told him about her husband and assured him she had no interest in his love or marrying again. He’d believed her until the time came to collect the new ferry.

“If you’re cursed, Seneschal, then I shall surely meet my end,” Aili told him on the docks before she kissed him good-bye. “Take my love with you, and come back when you may.”

He’d watched her walk toward the road that led to the boatyards, wishing he could take her to Caladh with him, for he knew then that his heart belonged to her. As that thought echoed in his head, a runaway horse appeared behind Aili, rearing and trampling her into the dirt. Horrified, he’d run to her, but before he could carry her to a healer she’d died in his arms.

Two women he’d loved dying could have been a wretched coincidence, but all three proved too much for Fletcher. After returning to Caladh he’d told Shaw about the widow, and when his brother had scoffed again he reminded him of the others he had loved and lost.