Page 5 of Farlan (Immortal Highlander Clan McKeran #3)

Chapter Two

F arlan McKeran knew he was dreaming when he saw across the room the big hearth he’d built from river stone in another lifetime.

He’d not visited his parents’ cottage since being cursed along with the rest of his clan of immortal half-brothers, which had trapped them in a strange other world where time had no meaning.

He turned, expecting to see a memory of his family from the distant past, yet it seemed that no one occupied the cottage but him.

“You wish to torment me,” he muttered under his breath as he slowly moved through the old cottage and crouched before the blazing fire.

In his waking hours he lived in Dun Talamh, the stronghold he had helped his clan build in the highlands of Scotland.

Nothing but green sky, two outer curtain walls and a forest illusion filled that world, which for nearly a thousand years had been the McKeran Clan’s prison.

Being removed from that place and brought back to his childhood home made for a bittersweet reunion.

He loved this shabby cottage, which he had helped build, although he knew he would never again see the place.

By now the passage of time would have caused it to tumble down and rot away.

Something nagged at the back of his thoughts, but he could not recall it.

So I shall enjoy my suffering now.

The oak mantel piece still had the imperfect carvings on it that he’d made as a young lad; the round gray and green stones he and his màthair’s mortal husband, Arran, had carried from the riverbanks while building the cottage.

The inside fire box still bore a thick layer of soot stains from the subsequent two decades of cooking his màthair had done.

Farlan recalled how kind Arran had been while showing him how to build the cottage walls and wooden roof.

Masons often guarded their secrets as others did hoards of gold and jewels, but the man who had been like a father to him had been as generous as he was fair.

Do the work properly from the first, my lad, and what you build, ’twill stand long after you’re gone.

He closed his eyes for a moment as the pain of being forever parted from his mortal family again pierced his heart.

Unlike most of his clan, Farlan had been favored by the Gods with a gentle, loving màthair who had never blamed him for his sire’s deeds.

Even after Myna had married Arran and bore him two daughters, she had doted on her eldest son as much as her mortal family, and assured him that he had been both wanted and well-loved from the moment of his birth.

’ Twasnae your fault nor mine, Far, his màthair had told him after she had revealed that he was the son of Keran, a wandering Fae hunter-warrior who had bedded Myna for a few nights before disappearing.

’Tis your sire who shouldnae ever again hold up his head for abandoning me as he did.

Even when I sent word to him that he’d gotten me with a bairn, never did he come back to see you nor do right by us.

Your character matters, no’ that of your sire, Arran had later advised him. Live and work as a decent man, look after your women, and none may shame you.

Farlan had never known that Keran had sired hundreds of sons during his time in the mortal realm; he’d always assumed he was the only product of the Fae’s bloodline.

When the eldest two of Keran’s sons had reached manhood, they’d set out to find and gather together their siblings.

He still recalled how startled he’d been when Tasgall and Darro had come to the village seeking him, for he bore a strong resemblance to them both.

We’re different from the sons of mortal parents, the future laird had told him.

We cannae sire bairns, nor suffer sickness or disease.

Half-Fae like us never age or die as mortals do, and ’tis difficult to end us, for near all our wounds heal faster and better.

Keran only sired sons with his lovers, so we’ve no sisters.

As brothers we may come together as a clan.

Farlan, who had just finished his apprenticeship, had no desire to be torn away from everyone and everything he knew. I’m happy here with my kin. I dinnae wish to leave them.

We wouldnae ask such of you, Brother. Darro had pointed toward the rounded mountain range just beyond the village’s valley.

We mean to build our stronghold there, and greatly need a trained mason to guide our efforts.

Of course you may visit your family whenever you wish, or bring them to the stronghold to abide with us.

In the end it had been Arran who had convinced him to go with his brothers . ’Twill make your name, taking charge of building that stronghold, lad. If you dinnae care for abiding with them after, come back home to us.

More than anything, he wanted to go home…but that truly was but a dream.

’Tis something wrong with the passage near the spell trap entry.

Farlan’s own voice blotted out the memory of his past. That he had said yesterday, he recalled, while discussing domestic matters with the clan’s war master.

The maids claim they heard cracking from there in the night—and ’twasnae the first time.

Alec, the most handsome of the McKeran Clan, had frowned at him. I shall go with you once I’ve met with the patrollers.

He had shaken his head. ’Tis likely naught. I’ll take a look myself.

Farlan heard no cracking, but a low humming sound did come in through the open kitchen window.

That drew him out into his mother’s garden, which was in full bloom now.

Although he’d hoped to see Myna or one of his sisters, the only person there was a tall, fair-haired woman dressed in ivory and gold.

The sight of her made his head empty of every thought but sheer wonder over her beauty.

By the Gods, who sent such a vision to me?

Like an exquisite princess from the Northlands, the woman walked slowly through the beds of herbs and veg, her long fingers trailing over the plants as she passed them.

The light loved her as dearly as a smitten swain, wrapping her in an exquisite radiance.

She had no expression on her stunning face—indeed, she seemed utterly indifferent to her humble surroundings—but moved with such poise she might have been floating along the old slate path .

Farlan had always loved women for their softness and delicacy and wondrous generosity, and the pleasure they shared with him. No female he’d ever beheld, however, could match this paragon.

The ivory and gold garments she wore—a cleverly-made jacket, and matching skirts that bared her long, slim legs to the mid-thigh—seemed woven from the same gilded light that shimmered in her hair.

Even the tiny crystal stars she wore in her ears seemed to have dropped there from the night sky.

Farlan had always seen the beauty in every female, no matter what other men reckoned, but he’d never beheld such a dream of a woman.

Watching her was the same as being embraced—and punched in the gut—all at once.

“My lady?” His voice sounded distorted, loud in his own ears but not carrying far.

The woman gave no indication that she’d heard him. She stopped to bend down and pluck a ripe berry from a particularly thorny bramble bush. She didn’t seem to notice being scratched as she lifted the fruit to admire it in the sun, her big, velvety brown eyes turning pure gold for a moment.

“This is an interesting place,” she said without looking at him, her voice low.

Her accent sounded much like that of Lady Ava, the laird’s wife, and Lady Olivia, who had only just wed Alec.

Both women had come into the spell trap from the outside world, a place called California.

This woman must have done the same, which explained her odd garments as well.

What startled him even more was the resemblance she bore to the clan’s chatelaine, Inga Holm.

Had the strange magic that engulfed Dun Talamh somehow twisted a vision of the chatelaine to appear and speak so differently?

“Aye,” he finally said when he realized she was waiting for a reply. “’Twas my home long ago.”

Her doe-soft eyes searched his face. “You lived here?”

“I helped build the cottage for my family when we came to the valley from the midlands.” He went to her, taking hold of her hand to inspect the scratches the brambles had left on her.

The sight of bright red droplets beading against her lovely skin made him angry. “Och, lass, didnae you see the thorns?”

“I don’t mind.” She regarded the wounds with utter indifference. “They only hurt if you care.”

Little droplets of blood fell from her wounds to mark his own hide.

Either her skin or a pomander she carried smelled exactly as did a fire built in a snow-covered field.

Looking into her eyes, he realized, was the same as staring at a stone wall; she revealed no emotion or interest in him.

He wondered for a moment if she realized how much danger surrounded her in this place so far from her own homeland.

“Tell me of your world,” Farlan said as he pulled a kerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her bleeding hand.

“I live in New York City, where I work. Where I used to work. My mother just died, so I came back to California to bury her.” She frowned as she watched him bandaging her wounds. “You don’t have to do this. I quit modeling. My life is over now.”

“Dinnae say such a thing.” He tucked in the ends of the linen before he met her gaze. “Life doesnae end because you cannae work. You’ve come to my world now, and I shall make a place for you here. Indeed, I shall look after you, my lady.”

“When you smile it hides who you really are,” she said, confounding him yet again. “That’s why you do it so much.”

“’Tis only that I’m a happy lad.” Farlan brought her bandaged hand to his lips. “You should smile, my lady.”