CHAPTER 3

THE MYSTICAL ISLE OF MORAR WAS CLOAKED IN EVENTIDE, the silica sands glistening silver beneath King Finnbheara's boots as he paced, impatiently awaiting the court fool's return.

The Queen and her favorite courtiers were merrily cele-brating the Beltane in a remote Highland village. Watching his elfin Aoibheal dance and flirt with the mortal High-landers had goaded his slumbering jealousy into wakeful wrath. He'd fled the Beltane fires before he could succumb to his desire to annihilate the entire village. He was too an-gry with mortals to trust himself around them at the mo-ment. The mere thought of his Queen with a mortal man filled him with fury.

As the fairy Queen had her favorites among their cour-tiers, so did the fairy King; the wily court fool was his long-time companion in cups and spades. He'd dispatched the fool to study the mortal Hawk, to gather information so he might concoct a fitting revenge for the man who'd dared trespass on fairy territory.

"His manhood at half-mast would make a stallion envi-ous.... he claims a woman's soul." King Finnbheara mocked his Queen's words in scathing falsetto, then spit irritably.

"I'm afraid it's true," the fool said flatly as he appeared in the shade of a rowan tree.

"Really?" King Finnbheara grimaced. He'd convinced himself Aoibheal had embellished a bit after all, the man was mortal.

The fool scowled. "I spent three days in Edinburgh. The man's a living legend. The women clamor over him. They speak his name as if it's some mystic incantation guaran-teed to bestow eternal ecstasy."

"Did you see him? With your own eyes? Is he beauti-ful?" the King asked quickly.

The fool nodded and his mouth twisted bitterly. "He's flawless. He's taller than me-"

"You're well over six feet in that glamour!" the King objected.

"He stands almost a hand taller. He has raven hair worn in a sleek tail; smoldering black eyes; the chiseled perfec-tion of a young god and the body of Viking warrior. It's re-volting. May I maim him, my liege? Disfigure his perfect countenance?"

King Finnbheara pondered this information. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach at the thought of this dark mortal touching his Queen's fair limbs, bringing her incomparable pleasure. Claiming her soul.

"I will kill him for you," the fool offered hopefully.

King Finnbheara gestured impatiently. "Fool! And break the Compact between our races? No. There must be another way."

The fool shrugged. "Perhaps we should sit back and do nothing. The Hawk is about to come to harm at his own race's hand."

"Tell me more," Finnbheara ordered, his interest piqued.

"I discovered that the Hawk is to be wed in a few days.

He is affianced by his mortal king's decree. Destruction is about to befall him. You see, my liege, King James has ordered the Hawk to wed a woman named Janet Comyn. The king has made it clear that if the Hawk doesn't wed this woman, he will destroy both the Douglas and Comyn clans."

"So? What's your point?" Finnbheara asked impatiently.

"Janet Comyn is dead. She died today."

Finnbheara tensed instantly. "Did you harm her, fool?"

"No, my liege!" The fool gave him a wounded look. "She died by her father's hand. I no more put the idea in his head than a key to her tower in his sporran."

"Does that mean you did or you didn't put the idea in his head?" the King asked suspiciously.

"Come now, my liege," the fool pouted, "think you I would resort to such trickery and jeopardize us all?"

Finnbheara templed his fingers and studied the fool. Un-predictable, cunning, and careless, the jester had not yet been foolish enough to risk their race. "Go on."

The fool cocked his head and his smile gleamed in the half-light. "It's simple. The wedding can't take place now. King James is going to destroy the Douglas. Oh, the Comyn too," he added irreverently.

"Ah!" Finnbheara debated a pensive moment. He didn't have to lift a finger and the Hawk would soon die.

But it wasn't enough, he seethed. Finnbheara wanted his own hand in the Hawk's destruction. He had suffered per-sonal insult, and he wanted an intimately personal revenge. No mortal man cuckolded the King of the Fairy, without di-vine retribution and how divine it would feel to destroy the Hawk.

The glimmer of an idea began to take shape in his mind. As he considered it, King Finnbheara felt more vital than he had in centuries.

The fool didn't miss the smug smile that teased the King's lips.

"You're thinking something wicked. What are you plan-ning, my liege?" the fool asked.

"Silence," King Finnbheara commanded. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he sifted through his options, carefully refining his scheme.

If time passed while Finnbheara plotted, neither fairy noticed; time meant little to the race of beings who could move about in it at will. The first flames of dawn painted the sky above the sea when the King spoke again:

"Has the Hawk ever loved?"

"Loved?" the fool echoed blankly.

"You know, that emotion for which mortals compose sonnets, fight wars, erect monuments," the King said dryly.

The fool reflected a moment. "I would say no, my King. The Hawk has never wooed a woman he didn't win, nor does it appear he ever desired any special woman over another."

"A woman has never denied him?" King Finnbheara asked with a trace of incredulity.

"Not that I could find. I don't think the woman lives and breathes in the sixteenth century who could deny him. I'm telling you, the man's a legend. Women swoon over him."

The King smiled avariciously. "I have another errand for you, fool."

"Anything, my liege. Let me kill him."

"No! There will be no blood spilled by our hand. Lis-ten to me carefully. Go now through the centuries. Go forward-women are more independent and self-possessed there. Find me a woman who is irresistible, exquisite, intel-ligent, strong; one who knows her own mind. Bid you well, she must be a woman who won't lose her wits being tossed through time, she must be adaptable to strange events. It wouldn't do to bring her to him and have her brain addled. She must believe in a bit of magic."

The fool nodded. "Too true. Remember that tax accoun-tant we took back to the twelfth century? She turned into a raving lunatic."

"Exactly. The woman you find must be somewhat inured to the unusual so she can accept time travel without coming undone." Finnbheara mulled this over a moment. "I have it! Look in Salem, where they still believe in witches, or perhaps New Orleans, where the ancient magic sizzles in the air."

"Perfect places!" the fool enthused.

"But most important, fool, you must find me a woman who harbors a special hatred for beautiful, womanizing men; a woman guaranteed to make that mortal's life a living hell."

The fool smiled fiendishly. "May I embellish on your plan?"

"You're a crucial part of it," the King said with sinister promise.