Fairy Tale by Jillian Hunter Page A

Andrew Hay would be rolling over in his grave if he could see what you’d become.”
    “What have I become?” Marsali asked in guarded fascination, realizing that by an accident of birth she had suddenly been elevated to a position of mysterious importance in Duncan’s eyes, wondering what it would mean to her, her cunning mind plotting how to make the most of it.
    “A criminal. An outlaw. A … ” He frowned down into her enrapt face, alarmed to discover he had slipped his other arm around her waist while they were talking. “Respect for your father prevents me from saying the word aloud,” he finished grimly.
    “What word?” Marsali asked, curiosity more compelling than propriety.
    He wrenched his hand away, afraid to imagine what might have happened in another moment. “Never mind. It doesn’t bear saying.”
    “How dare you,” Marsali said, her back stiffening at the insult, which had taken on graver proportions for being unspoken.
    “How dare you, Marsali Hay.” His heavy black eyebrows drew together into a reproachful scowl. “How dare you ambush and undress men on the moor, only to let them take advantage of you on the beach like a—Well, it’s that word again. God, when I think about what we almost did.”
    “What you almost did,” she said indignantly. “I didn’t do a damn thing. I was only trying to get warm.”
    His smile was merciless. “In another minute I would have had you lying beneath me with your skirts pulled up, and you would have liked it too.”
    “You hypocrite,” Marsali exclaimed, her temper flaring. She sprang to her feet, wanting only to escape him before she could give him the pleasure of watching her break down like a bairn, accusing her of something she barely understood. He gripped her wrist and drew her back down onto the sand. But this time stark distrust replaced the mood of playful seduction that had built between them.
    “I gave you a chance, my lord,” she said, breathless with anger. “But you are a black demon.”
    “Yes.” He stuck his forefinger under her nose, his face unrepentant. “Hypocrite, bastard, demon, murderer, I’ve been called every dirty name under the sun, but let me tell you one thing, Marsali: You were the apple of your papa’s eye. Yes, I remember the day you were born. Andrew was already planning to marry you off to a Danish prince. ‘My daughter is descended from Olaf the Black,’ he told any poor idiot who would stop to listen after your birth.”
    An unwilling smile eased the taut line of her mouth; she missed her father so much. “Really?” she whispered distrustfully.
    “Yes, really. And no one was allowed to so much as breathe on his precious little princess. That old wizard uncle of yours drew a charmed circle around your cradle and stood vigil until your christening to prevent an evil fairy from claiming your soul. I should have made the connection. Damn it.”
    Moisture glistened in Marsali’s eyes. “Papa always protected me,” she said, her heart aching with a pain she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge, a pain she avoided by filling her life with dangerous distractions.
    “He protected me too.” Duncan ran his hand through his long disheveled hair, his mind still reeling from the shock. “Of course I never appreciated him at the time, but you, well, it would break his heart to see you now.”
    Guilt crept into the hurt and anger building inside her. “I wouldn’t be whatever it is you claim I’ve become if the heir to the chieftainship had not been off fighting wars for other countries.”
    “Banished, lass,” Duncan said, his own voice rising in self-defense. “And don’t fault me for the life you’ve chosen. But all right, Marsali. All bloody right. I’ll accept some of the blame because your loved ones were blown up accompanying my father on his fool’s mission.” He gave her a chilling smile. “I’ll atone for my past sins and repay my debt to Andrew by assuming responsibility for