PROLOGUE

SCOTLAND

1 FEBRUARY 1513

THE FRAGRANCE OF JASMINE AND SANDALWOOD DRIFTED through the rowan trees. Above dew-drenched branches, a lone gull ghosted a bank of mist and soared to kiss the dawn over the white sands of Morar. The turquoise tide shim-mered in shades of mermaid tails against the alabaster shore.

The elegant royal court of the Tuatha De Danaan dap-pled the stretch of lush greenery. Pillowed chaises in bril-liant scarlet and lemon adorned the grassy knoll, scattered in a half-moon about the outdoor dais.

"They say he is even more beautiful than you," the Queen remarked to the man sprawled indolently at the foot of her dais.

"Impossible." His mocking laughter tinkled like cut-crystal chimes on a fae wind.

"They say his manhood at half-mast would make a stallion envious." The Queen slanted a glance beneath half-lowered lids at her rapt courtiers.

"More likely a mouse," sneered the man at her feet. Ele-gant fingers demonstrated a puny space of air, and titters sliced the mist.

"They say at full-mast he steals a woman's mind from her body. Claims her soul." The Queen dropped fringed lashes to shield eyes alight with the iridescent fire of mis-chievous intent. How easily my men are provoked!

The man rolled his eyes and disdain etched his arrogant profile. He crossed his legs at the ankles and gazed out across the sea.

But the Queen wasn't fooled. The man at her feet was vainglorious, and not as impervious to her provocation as he feigned.

"Quit baiting him, my Queen," King Finnbheara ad-monished. "You know how the fool gets when his ego is wounded." He patted her arm soothingly. "You've teased him enough."

The Queen's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She briefly con-sidered forgoing this vein of revenge. A calculating look at her men dashed that thought, as she recalled what she'd overheard them discussing late last evening in excruciating detail.

The things they'd said were unforgivable. The Queen was not a woman to be compared with another woman and found lacking. Her lip tightened imperceptibly. Her exquis-itely delicate hand curled into a fist. She carefully selected her next words.

"But I have found him to be all that they say," the Queen purred.

In the silence that followed, the statement lingered, un-acknowledged, for the cut was too cruel to dignify. The King at her side and the man at her feet shifted restlessly. She was beginning to think she hadn't made her point quite painfully clear enough when, in unison, they rose to her bait. "Who is this man?"

Queen Aoibheal of the Fairy disguised a satisfied smile with a delicate yawn, and drank deeply of her men's jeal-ousy. "They call him the Hawk."

A hush fell over the knoll as if the sea itself had paused to listen.

Even the gull that circled above dipped its wing and vanished into the mist.

The name did not drift lightly into the morning air. It settled, heavy and deliberate, between the King, the Queen, and the gathered court like a challenge laid at their feet.

Aoibheal watched the effect with quiet satisfaction. She knew the power of a name. She knew the danger of wounded pride. And she knew her husband well enough to recognize the storm gathering behind his calm expression.

The Hawk.

A mortal man.

A man whose reputation had crossed the veil between worlds and dared to stir unrest in a realm where mortals were meant to be forgotten whispers.

The Queen leaned back against her cushions, feigning disinterest, though her mind moved swiftly. Insult, once planted, never withered in the heart of a fairy king. It festered. It grew roots.

And soon, it demanded action.

Aoibheal did not yet know what shape that action would take, only that it would come. She had set something in motion that could no longer be recalled.

Far beyond the white sands of Morar, beyond the mortal hills and the reach of fairy sight, a man walked the earth unaware that his name had just been spoken in a court that did not forgive, did not forget, and did not forgive lightly.

Fate, stirred by jealousy and pride, had begun to turn.