A Faerie Fated Forever Read Free

generally; she threw her arms about – warning that misery would soon spew like lava.
    Carrick stared at the black bag like it contained something more deadly than herbs and bandages before he stood and tossed it into Heather's lap.
    For a minute, she nearly giggled, thinking that one of her younger cousins would believe they were playing catch. Heather stifled the impulse, which was a good thing, because her father said her name. Her whole name.
    “Heather Ceana MacIver, explain yourself. NOW,” he said, in increasing volume, so that the last word was a roar. Heather knew she was about to get it. Really get it. Unless she could distract her father she'd not see the outside of her room for a month.
    “The MacGregor’s five-year-old boy, little Bran came down with croup and a chest infection. You know him, Da. He’s the one whose hair you always ruffle and say he reminds you of Uncle Conall. The poor thing was dreadfully ill and I was up all night treating him with myrrh tea and linseed. Not until this morn did the wee munchkin cease his coughing fits and fall into a sound sleep.” Heather busied herself pouring her Da a cup of Scots Whiskey and handed it to him, as she said, “He might have died without me.”
    Bonnie rolled her eyes. “For the love of the almighty, lass, what is one crofter bairn more or less? Anyway, the child wouldn’t have died, they would have fetched old Latharna and she’d likely have cured the lad in time to get some rest!”
    Reminded of the village healer, Da’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth but closed it again when his squire came running in with a note. As Carrick read the message, Bonnie took a hard look at her daughter, rolled her eyes again, and walked to Heather’s side.
    “What will it take for you to dress as befits your station? You look like a kitchen maid or a washerwoman. The dress would fit about four of you and,” she untied the girl’s bonnet, snatching it away as Heather danced after it. “I can’t even see your eyes under this hideous thing!”
    What could she say in her own defense that her mother hadn't heard a thousand times before? She glanced in the mirror, quickly, for a split second, for she couldn't bear to face her reflection longer. The image proclaimed that her mother described her all too well. What did it matter that she wore a red Granny bonnet? The thing hid her loathsome hair didn't it? Yes, her dress would fit about four women her size, but what of it? It was one of the high-necked, long sleeved, garments that she favored for comfort – and to hide her sow-like breasts. Mother was right as usual. Heather knew she resembled a drab or a scald, and an unkempt one at that.
    “Sweetheart, I’ve told you so many times that while you won’t ever be a traditional beauty, you could be lovely and exotic. You need only make a little effort," Bonnie said, her eyes snapping from tenderness to anger as she continued. "I know your late grandmother convinced you that your hair is odd. The old bat, err, I mean dear," she corrected at a sharp look from Carrick, "even said that your golden eyes were produced by a curse."
    Bonnie warmed to her subject, grabbing Heather and shaking her shoulders. "Wake up dear! She was stone jealous every time she said you looked like a stick trying to support a boulder. Granny's chest was as flat as her intellect." She cast a look at her husband that dared him to disagree. He didn't. "The old girl preached her favorite homilies until I grew heartily sick of them. I can still see her little beady eyes following me while her crabby voice says pretty is as pretty does . My personal favorite was her zinger - a man shallow enough to be attracted by the wrapping, will never appreciate the contents . How did she think I attracted Carrick? With my even temper?"
    Heather thought longingly of her dear departed Granny, who'd taught her everything she knew of herbs and of life. Heather modeled herself after Granny's mode of dress.