Page 49 of Fletcher

“Please come with me,” Lark begged, clutching at Fletcher’s sodden tunic. “I’m not safe unless you’re with me.”

“Aye, so I shall.” He met the king’s gaze. “Assure you punish that bastart, King.” He didn’t have to tell him what would happen if he didn’t.

Merrick bowed so low his face nearly touched the water. “Aye, Seneschal.”

So much anger burned inside Lark it frightened her almost as much as being abducted and nearly drowned. Her shoulder throbbed miserably from the way the Finfolk boy had wrenched her arm up behind her back to force her to move. Bits of soggy seaweed from the sack he’d shoved over her head still clung to her hair, some of which he’d yanked out. She’d managed to be polite to Merrick, and she was fairly sure none of the MacMar had caught on, but Fletcher knew her better than anyone.

MacLeir, whom Meg had told her was the clan’s ferryman, glanced down at her from where he stood by the rudder. He had an odd appearance that suggested he, too, might not be entirely mortal. As she met his gaze he removed the shabby dark cloak he wore and held it out to her.

“Did you need me to take that?” she asked him.

“He cannae speak,” Fletcher said, still watching the islet where Merrick was rounding up the renegades. “He sees you’re cold, and wishes give you something dry you may wrap round you.”

“Thank you.” Lark got to her feet and went to take the cloak, only to stumble as the boat rocked.

The ferryman caught her with his arm, and wrapped the cloak around her before he helped her to sit down on the deck. He pointed at Fletcher’s back, and then to her, and finally hugged himself with his arms.

Lark nodded her understanding and then regarded her lover, noticing how rigidly he held his shoulders. She had seen him like this once before, at the walking labyrinth when Merrick had spoken to her. When he’d grabbed her away from the Finfolk boy he’d been ready to kill him, something he probably would have done if she hadn’t been choking.

He must have been as scared as I was.

She crept up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek between his shoulder blades. “They won’t come after me again. Merrick will make sure of that much.”

“’Tisnae what you think.” He put his hand on her arms, tugging them apart as he stood up. “MacLeir shall see you to the stronghold. I shall return later.” He looked at the ferryman. “Dinnae permit any Finfolk near her.”

He was going to get revenge for what had happened, Lark guessed. “They didn’t try to drown you. I was the one who was attacked. Why do you have to go after them?”

Fletcher spun around, his expression so savage she almost didn’t recognize him. “They put their slimy hands on you. They intended force the change on you. I dinnae care what the king vows. I shallnae permit them try again.”

He spoke as if he were on the verge of going berserk, and then she remembered what Nyall had told her.

Fletcher’s a different sort of man, and one you never wish to see angered.

“If you go after the Finfolk, you and I are finished.” She saw his eyes narrow. “This was done to me, not you. You know I’m not helpless. I could have easily hurt or killed them with my power, but I didn’t. They’re just a bunch of kids who did something stupid, so I let it go. You need to do the same thing, right now, or I can’t be with you anymore.”

Hurt slowly replaced the rage in his eyes. “They’ll try again.”

“Let them.” She took hold of his hands. “We’ll be ready.”

For a moment Lark thought he would still jump over the side, and then he pulled her into his arms. Over his shoulder she saw the ferryman watching them, and gave him a thumbs-up. MacLeir smiled and nodded.

Once they reached the island Fletcher carried her on shore and followed her up the cliff steps to the stronghold. Double the usual number of guards stood at the gates, and all of them looked ready to kill. Brochan, the clan’s cook, met them as soon as they came inside, and he had a half-dozen big knives stuck in his belt.

“Those facking bastarts,” the big man said as he surveyed them. “I shall gut every one and stew them for the evening meal.”

“Hold that notion, Brother,” Fletcher told him. “For if they try such again, I shall filet them for you.”

“I’m fine, so please, no fileting or stewing,” Lark said, wondering just how many men she needed to calm down today. “Where is Idonea?”

“Duncan’s with her in the infirmary, my lady,” the cook said. “Her head, ’twas paining her greatly.”

“I’ll go and check on her,” she told her lover. “You should see the laird and tell him what happened. Step one of that plan: let go of me.”

Fletcher looked down at their joined hands. “You’ll need a bathe. I’ll send maids with hot water to your chamber.” Reluctantly he released his grip.

Lark stood on her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. “Be good.”

She kept smiling at everyone she passed on her way to the infirmary, which she hoped would spread the word that she was fine. She wasn’t, of course, and wanted to run to the guest chamber and hide there for a couple of years, but that wouldn’t help the situation. She needed to keep up the brave act and let everyone believe she wasn’t scared out of her wits.