Lord of Horses Read online

  “No, it looked like – I was there when the kelpie tried to d-drown us all,” they insisted. “This man looked just like the guise the monster took two years ago.”

  Lachlan’s face darkened. “The southern shore of the loch, you say? Did you see where the man was headed?”

  The creature looked too terrified to reply. Lachlan knew that he cut an intimidating figure, particularly now his magical powers increased with every day he sat upon the Seelie throne. Even draped across said throne in a half-undone shirt, breeches and no shoes he had the capacity to incite fear in those he faced.

  He was not in the mood to dull his presence for the sake of a quivering faun.

  “Where was he headed?” Lachlan asked again, voice full of warning. “You must tell me.”

  The creature gulped.

  “Miss Darrow’s house.”

  Lachlan stared at Ailith who stared right back at him. In her haunting blue eyes Lachlan could see his own face, golden and livid and full of a fear he would never admit to.

  Am I stronger than the kelpie now? Can I end his life where I could not before?

  “Time to pay Sorcha a visit,” Lachlan said, a vicious, vulpine snarl curling his lips.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter Three

  Sorcha

  Sorcha couldn’t believe her eyes. She simply couldn’t. For there was no way Murdoch Buchanan was standing on the threshold of her house, his dark hair dripping glacial water down his ghostly-pale, naked skin.

  Very, very naked skin, Sorcha thought, forcing her eyes back up the man’s face as soon as she realised they had wandered downward.

  “Can I come in?” Murdoch asked. Sorcha became aware of the fact that he’d already asked to come in twice already, and all she’d done was stare blankly at him. He was shivering and shaking; clearly he had been wandering around outside for a while.

  Sorcha numbly waved Murdoch inside, forcing the heavy wooden door shut behind him to keep out the howling storm threatening to blow snow down the hallway. She stumbled along to the parlour room – where she had been sitting by the fire to read a book – and yanked open a chest of drawers to pull out a large, tartan blanket.

  She flung it at Murdoch.

  “You – what is this?” Sorcha asked, so quietly she could barely hear her own question over the crackling of the fire. She didn’t dare to look at him. “Are you…are you –”

  “The kelpie, yes,” Murdoch coughed. He wrapped the blanket around himself, waiting until Sorcha indicated for him to sit by the fire with a panicky jolt of her head to sit down upon the carpeted floor. “We both know the real Murdoch is dead.”

  Sorcha was torn between collapsing onto the armchair by the hearth and pacing back and forth in distress. In the end she perched upon the very edge of the chair, back stock straight as she stared down at the shivering figure of Murdoch Buchanan wrapped in a blanket.

  His hair has grown longer, Sorcha thought when she noticed the way it almost reached his shoulders. How could that be possible? The kelpie is merely borrowing the man’s form to – to –

  “How are you human?” she demanded, finally vocalising the first question she should have asked the very moment she saw Murdoch standing outside her door.

  The kelpie’s impossibly dark eyes bored into her own. There were deep-set shadows beneath them; along with the hollowness of his cheeks Murdoch looked altogether haunted. Or dead, which the man himself has long-since been.

  Sorcha pushed the disturbing thought away.

  “I made a deal with an Unseelie ghoul,” he explained, though his voice was so cracked Sorcha barely understood him. With a swish of her dress she got to her feet, waving for Murdoch to stay exactly where he was in the process.

  “I’m merely getting you some water,” she said, “and food. You look half-starved.”

  The smallest of smiles quirked his lips. “That will happen, when all you eat for months and months are the lowest of the fae.”

  Sorcha did not respond. She did not know how.

  She took her time in the kitchen, browsing through the pantry to locate cheese, oatcakes and some salted ham her parents had brought back from Glasgow a few days ago. Alongside these Sorcha filled a cup with water that had been boiled over the fire an hour ago; it was pleasantly warm to the touch. She added a dash of honey to it to help ease Murdoch’s throat.

  Lastly Sorcha threw a few cubes of tablet that she had made the evening before for lack of anything better to do. It still didn’t have the texture her mother’s tablet had, but she was getting better and better at making the sugary confection with every new attempt.

  And then, because it would not do to stall any further, Sorcha placed everything onto a wooden tray and brought it back through to the parlour room. Murdoch was staring at the fire as he warmed his hands against it, though when he heard Sorcha’s footsteps he turned to smile at her.

  He does not look angry with me, she thought. Even after what I did to him. How could that be?

  Sorcha placed the tray of food down on the floor in front of Murdoch before sitting opposite him. “I apologise,” she said, “I didn’t have any leftovers from dinner, so cold meat and cheese will have to do.”

  But Murdoch shook his head at Sorcha’s apology. “I did not expect you to feed me, Miss Darrow. This is far more than I deserve.” He picked up the cup of honeyed water, sighing contentedly when the liquid passed his lips.

  “…you said you made a deal with an Unseelie,” Sorcha ventured, curiosity finally overcoming her need to be a gracious host. The kelpie was hardly her usual kind of house guest, after all. “Are you – does that mean you can change your form again?”

  Murdoch gulped down a mouthful of cheese before replying. He glanced at the ornately carved, oak-wood clock hanging on the wall. “I have another ten hours in this skin, or thereabouts. When my time is up I will return back to the way I was before.”

  “Then why…what are you doing here? What do you need?”

  “Miss Darrow…” Murdoch held her gaze for a long moment then cast his eyes downward. “I need my bridle back. But it is not to do anything nefarious, I swear. I need to go to London.”

  London?

  Of all the answers the kelpie could have given, this was the last one Sorcha had expected. She slid from the armchair to kneel in front of Murdoch. “What is in London?” she asked. “Just what is wrong?”

  “Grey and MacKinnon – the company Murdoch Buchanan still officially works for – have grown impatient with his extended stay up here, Miss Darrow.”

  A pause. It did not take Sorcha long to work out what Murdoch meant. “…they want to do something with the land around the loch again, don’t they?” she said. “How have you been holding them off for so long in the first place? You were – I mean, you aren’t actually Mr Buchanan.”

  Murdoch laughed humourlessly. “No, I am not, but considering I planned to use this appearance to ensure no harm was wrought on my home, I had certain countermeasures put in place before I went searching for my runaway bride two years ago.”

  Sorcha blushed before she could stop herself. She looked away. “What kind of countermeasures?” she mumbled, twisting her hands in her lap as she did so.

  “Everyone in London believes that you and Mr Buchanan have spent the last two years enjoying an extended engagement. It has held the company off until now, but I’m afraid the time I managed to borrow has been spent. Miss Darrow, they intend to fill in the shallowest southern shores of the loch to make room for official hunting and holiday lodges.”

  “They what?!”

  Gone was Sorcha’s previous wariness of Murdoch; with a furious expression on her face she pushed away the tray of food that separated them and leaned towards him, hands balanced on his knees to keep her from falling over. He seemed entirely surprised by her sudden closeness, though Sorcha did not have it in her to care right now.

  “I own the land around here!” she shouted at him. “My father signed it over to me last year so they could not bully him into handing it over! They cannot walk onto my land and –”

  Murdoch cupped Sorcha’s face between his hands, silencing her tirade prematurely. There was a softness in his eyes that Sorcha had dreamed about more often than she dared to admit, not least because the kelpie had looked at her with this exact same expression transforming his features before she had ripped his bridle away from him.

  And broken his heart.

  “Miss Darrow,” he said, an agonisingly fond smile upon his lips, “I plan to stop them, rest assured. But for that, I need to beg of you a favour.” He inhaled deeply through his nose. “Is there any way I can convince you to ask your golden faerie for my bridle back?”

  Sorcha froze. Murdoch seemed to take this as a no, for the smile fell from his face and he made to drop his hands. But Sorcha raised her own to keep them there, instead, and in doing so lost her balance. When she began to fall towards Murdoch’s chest his grip tightened to keep her upright.

  “There is no need for me to do such a thing,” Sorcha said, laughing giddily. Her heart was beating so hard and fast it felt as if it would burst from her chest; she had not felt this alive in months.

  Murdoch frowned, confused by both Sorcha’s answer and their new-found proximity. “…what do you mean, Miss Darrow?” he asked, very quietly.

  She grinned. “Lachlan does not have your bridle. I do; it is mine.”

  It took a few moments for the truth of what Sorcha had said to sink in for Murdoch. His frown deepened, and then disappeared, and he ran a hand through Sorcha’s hair to bring her even closer to him.

  Sorcha hardly dared to breathe. The air between her and the kelpie was dark and electric – an achingly familiar, dangerously seductive atmosphere that Sorcha had been sure she’d never feel wash over her again.

  She leaned into his touch just a little more.

  “You would let me have it?” Murdoch asked, voice low and melodic and full of hope.

  Of course Sorcha was going to let him have it. She had never wanted to take it from him in the first place.

  Her lips parted. “Ye–”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Murdoch and Sorcha’s eyes widened in unison. They turned their heads to face the door. For there stood Lachlan, as thunderous and wild as the storm currently battering the Darrow household.

  A growl leapt from his lips. “Get away from Clara or so help you, kelpie, I shall destroy you where you stand.”

  Chapter Four

  Murdoch

  “Do I have to repeat myself, you bloody horse?” Lachlan fired at Murdoch. “Get away from her – now.”

  But Murdoch did not move. How could he? Sorcha Darrow was in his arms. She was in his arms, and she had his bridle, and she wanted to give it back to him. Her passion to protect her home – their home – had ignited her mismatched eyes like fire.

  He would never willingly let that go.

  But then Sorcha shifted away from him, and the spell was broken.

  “Lachlan,” she said, standing up to greet him with a wary smile on her face, “once you have heard what is going on you will understand why I wish to give him his bridle back.”

  “That monster was told not to resurface!” the faerie snarled, ire dripping from every syllable he spoke. He glared at Murdoch. “But you just had to see her, didn’t you? You couldn’t leave her well enough alone. And you have the gall to demand she help you? Why would you ever think that –”

  Sorcha slapped him.

  “If you do not listen, Lachlan,” she warned, “then I will give Murdoch back his bridle without so much as including you in the conversation. Are we clear?”

  Murdoch did not think he could love Sorcha Darrow more than he already did, but he was blissfully, painfully wrong. Watching a human have the power to physically harm a faerie with no repercussions was immensely satisfying, especially when said faerie was the Seelie King.

  Lachlan was positively stunned by both Sorcha’s slap and her threat. Clearly he did not know what to say, torn between incandescent rage and disbelief as he was.

  “Miss Sorcha, it is good to see you…despite the circumstances,” came a soft, feminine voice from the doorway. Murdoch stood up, wrapping the tartan blanket Sorcha had given him a little tighter around his body in the process. For there was Ailith, the beautiful faerie who had become Lachlan’s queen after he had ascended the throne.

  The one who loved Lachlan with all her heart, yet had decided to break his anyway. The one who was responsible for Lachlan seeking to enchant Sorcha into being his until the end of time.

  Sorcha rushed over to embrace the female faerie, who happily reciprocated the gesture. She kissed Sorcha’s brow, then pulled away from her to give Murdoch a once-over. “You do not look well, kelpie,” she said. “How is it that you appear before us as the late Mr Buchanan once more?”

  Murdoch took a moment to inhale the heady woodsmoke burning from the fire before he spoke; the smell helped to ground him. For he did not feel well, not at all. Clearly the Unseelie ghoul’s magic did not agree with him in the slightest.

  “I made a deal with a darker fae,” he explained for Ailith’s benefit, and Lachlan’s. “I have another ten or so hours left before their magic wears off.”

  Lachlan barked at the explanation, sounding entirely like the fox he had once been. “An Unseelie was foolish enough to help the creature out that killed its own kin?”

  “Given that they were skulking in Loch Lomond I somehow doubt they care much for their brethren,” Murdoch countered. “Or they do not wish to be found.” That was how most fae – Seelie and Unseelie alike – ended up hiding underwater, after all.

  “And what was so important that you had to make a deal with their kind in order to show up at Clara’s door?”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Lachlan, and he shall tell you,” Sorcha cut in, gesturing for both Lachlan and Ailith to sit upon the armchairs by the parlour room’s bay window, which overlooked the loch. Once upon a time Murdoch had sat there with Sorcha to have their first real conversation, and he had teased and scared her.

  It felt like forever ago.

  It was Ailith who sat down first, giving Lachlan a pointed look until he, too, collapsed onto the chair beside her with a scowl on his face.

  “Fine,” the faerie muttered. “Explain away, kelpie, whilst I am in the mood to listen.”

  And so Murdoch told the King and Queen of the Seelie Court all about Grey and MacKinnon, and the looming threat the company posed to the Darrow land. Sorcha fussed around them, pouring drams of pale amber whisky and topping up Murdoch’s cup of honeyed water.

  When Murdoch’s explanation came to an end nobody spoke for a few minutes. Clearly Lachlan and Ailith were mulling over what he had told them, though with every passing second Sorcha grew more and more restless. She sat on her armchair, then stoked the fire, then wandered over to a chest of drawers to rearrange the contents. Murdoch was tempted to pull her down to sit on the floor beside him; it took everything in him to resist doing so.

  Eventually, Lachlan turned his golden eyes on Murdoch and said, “There is no way I am allowing you to travel anywhere with your full powers unsupervised.”

  “He won’t be unsupervised,” Sorcha said. She finished refolding a blanket that did not need refolding as everyone stared at her.

  “What do you mean, Miss Darrow?” Murdoch asked, just as curious as Lachlan and Ailith were.

  She straightened her back and cleared her throat. “I’m going with you, of course.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “But it makes sense, Lachlan,” Sorcha countered, silencing the faerie with a single glance. She twisted her hair over one shoulder simply to do something with her fidgeting hands. She was nervous, that much was apparent, but Sorcha also had a determined expression on her face which told Murdoch she had resolutely made up her mind.

  “I am meant to be engaged to Mr Buchanan,” she said. “Grey and MacKinnon believe he has spent the last two years up here to live with me. It would be better for me to travel down to London with Murdoch to meet the man’s associates. That way I can keep track of what is actually going on…as well as ensuring the kelpie does not get up to no good.”

  Lachlan looked as if he desperately wished to complain. Murdoch himself was torn between protesting Sorcha’s suggestion and gleefully accepting it. For there was no doubt Mr Buchanan’s associates had few qualms with stooping low to use questionable methods to acquire things they wanted, going by the man’s memories. It would be dangerous to put Sorcha in front of them. But on the other hand…

  I would get to spend time with her by myself, with no fox-cursed faeries getting in our way.

  When Lachlan stood up Ailith followed suit. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then let it go in order to face Sorcha. “We need to talk, Clara,” he said, temper clearly barely contained. He fired another glare at Murdoch. “In private.”

  She nodded, sparing Murdoch a glance before following Lachlan out of the parlour room, leaving Murdoch and Ailith to sit in awkward, agonised silence punctuated only by the snap and crackle of the fire and the roaring storm unsettling Loch Lomond outside the curtained window.

  “So you wed him,” Murdoch murmured, simply to break the unbearable tension. He kept his eyes on the fox-orange flames blackening the stone hearth. “You really did love him; that was not a lie.”

  “You know my kind cannot lie,” Ailith said. “I have always loved Lachlan.”

  “If that is the case, then why do you appear unperturbed by his feelings for Miss Darrow?”

  She let out an impassioned sigh. “There is so much you do not understand, kelpie. Your solitary life has left you woefully ignorant.”

  Murdoch bristled at Ailith’s comment, though her tone had not been patronising – she had simply spoken something which she believed to be the truth.

  He scowled at her. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that the Seelie are not constrained by such restrictive notions as monogamy. It is possible for us to love more than one soul at a time, and deeply. You rarely hear of faeries slaughtering one another in jealous rages; this is why.”