“Aye. Not only was she a seer, but she held wisdom that seemed to be gifted to her from heaven. We could talk about anything fer hours, and it never got boring. She was my mother’s mother, born and raised on the Isle of Skye. She married a MacAlister, but her blood is of Clan MacLeod,” he explains.
“You cared for her very much, didn’t you?”
“I did. She was more like a friend than a grandmother. When I was young, I would go to Skye fer the summer and stay wi’ her. ’Tis a beautiful place steeped in the myths of ould Scotland. There are more mysteries and legends than ye can keep up with.”
“More so than here?” I ask playfully.
“Well, let’s put it this way: On Skye, if ye told yer neighbor ye saw a faerie in the forest, they’d smile, pat ye on the back, and tell ye you’ll be havin’ good luck fer the rest of the day,” he answers with humor.
“So, Scotland is overrun with faeries, is it?”
“Apparently so. And not just the wee sprities that ye’ve seen flying around the ferns and trees. There is the legend of the Fey Folk. They look like humans but possess an unnatural physical beauty and are gifted seers and healers. Legend has it that way back in the MacLeods’ history; there was a chieftain that fell in love wi’ a Fey princess whose beauty was beyond compare. They wanted to marry, but her father, the Fey King, only allowed them to be handfast fer a year and a day. They did and lived happily, even had a son, but when the day finally came, they had to part ways, and both were left brokenhearted. The child stayed wi’ the MacLeod chief, and his faerie mother was said to sneak in the babe’s window to console him if he cried, and she could be heard singing to him from afar. ’Tis a very sad story, is it not?”
“Yes, Alasdair,” I agree, blinking away the sting in my eyes. “I hope it’s simply an exaggerated tale passed down through time.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. The MacLeods are in possession of a relic that is said to be a gift from the Fey princess. ’Tis an enchanted cloth they call the Faerie Flag that, when waved during times of peril, will grant the clan a wish to turn the tides in their favor. They are only allowed to use it three times and have already used it twice. Nanna was adamant that this tale was true as she had seen the relic with her own eyes. Said she could sense its authenticity and could not contain the urge to weep at simply being in its presence.” He pauses, and I stare at him in fascinated wonder. “She was a damned convincing storyteller, so I never doubted it was true.”
“That is truly fascinating! Suppose it is true.” I stop and laugh a little to myself. “Of course, I am a bit of a romantic, so I suppose I’m somewhat gullible when it comes to stories of the heart.”
“I would’na feel gullible. I have read plenty a’ tale about a human and a Fey falling in love, even marrying as the MacLeod did. There are stories that venture many generations back in time. They speak o’ the children born of these couples. Some say ’tis where the gift of the Fey comes from—faerie blood.”
I stare at my husband, so handsome and masculine yet, so at ease with the notion that these legends could be true. At this point, after everything I have seen and experienced here at Galloway, it is rather easy for me to accept this sort of fantasy is real and, truly, there is something about that freedom of thought that makes me very happy.
“If that is true, then you must have faerie blood flowing in your veins,” I say with a jesting tone, then lean toward him and offer a quick peck on his beautiful smiling lips.
“Considering my family tree, ’tis very likely. However, it’s you that exhibits more Fey traits than me. Ye had a bloody white stag greet ye in the forest, and he let ye pet him! I’ve never heard of such a thing, only read about it.”
That comment startles me, and I sit up straighter. “What do you mean…you’ve read about it?”
“Well, the white stag is a rare beast, and as ye know, there are many legends that follow its history through time. But one says that the mystical white stag is a friend of the faerie folk, the Fey. Some say it’s because they are faeries themselves, shifting to the form of a stag so they can live at peace with nature and not be encumbered with the routines and responsibilities of their more human-like counterparts.”
“I fear I will never be able to keep up with all these stories, legends, and mysteries. Growing up in England, I only recall learning how to be a proper lady in society. Though I was fortunate to learn reading, writing, and arithmetic—my father made certain of that—but I had to make up my own fantastical stories as I looked for adventure in the forests.”
“Not to worry, faerie maiden. Yer ould soul has likely roamed these lands many times before, so it’s in there somewhere. It won’t be long before yer a fine storyteller yerself wi’ a mind full of tales you’ll be sharing with our children and grandchildren.” He pauses to push my hair behind my ear. “The thought of seeing ye with our bairns, telling them stories of old and even those of new, makes me so happy, ye might find me praying the Lord blesses us wi’ ten or more.” His eyes sparkle with humor.
“Ten or more? Good heavens, Alasdair! Is that even proper for a lady?”
His hearty laughter blends with the sound of the water rushing over and between the rocks. “Perhaps it is not, but society will’na be determining the size of our brood. That will be a decision made by you and me.” He gets up on his knees and moves toward me. His arm wraps around my back as he coaxes me to lie down on the thick wool blanket. He situates himself next to me, our bodies comfortably pressing into one another, his hand roaming across my chest and neck and face. “I will be kissin’ ye fer at least the next hour. I hope ye did’na have other plans.”
Butterflies swarm in my stomach as I look up at him, the light of the sun shining behind him, creating a bright halo, a perfect contrast to his black hair. My fingers gently follow the outline of his smiling lips, my thumb circling that ever-intriguing dimple, before my hand reaches to the back of his neck and pulls him to me.
“No, Lord Galloway. My afternoon belongs to you.”