Read Online Yuletide Enchantment by Sophie Renwick - Free Book Online Page A

his utensils against his plate.
    “Magnificent stag,” Ewan declared. “Would look right at home with its head mounted on a plaque above our hearth.”
    Isobel thought of Daegan and closed her eyes. He didn’t deserve to be hunted, to be killed. The thought of her brothers running after him, shooting at him, made her feel violent.
    “Let us gather a hunting party for the morning,” her father announced. “Fifty pounds to the man who fells this stag and brings me his head. He shall have the place of honor over the hearth.”
    Ewan slid his gaze to her. “What do you think of that, Issy? A bounty on your hart?”
    She glared at her brother before turning her gaze to her father. “I would ask that you spare this animal, Papa. He has done nothing to harm anyone here. He does not cause mischief, or eat from the gardens. He is a beautiful creature, meant to be left alone, not hunted.”
    “I, for one, will not take part in such a hunt,” St. Clair announced. “The white hart is a mystical creature. A sign that the Otherworld is near.”
    “Afraid of a few fae?” Ewan snickered. “I’m surprised, St. Clair; you seem to be such a steady bloke.”
    The earl cleared his throat. “I have seen one myself.”
    “What?” the entire table asked in shock.
    Good lord, was St. Clair touched in the head?
    “I was five, and I saw him crawl in the library window—”
    “Did he have black hair and violet eyes?” Isobel asked, interrupting him.
    The earl looked at her strangely. “No, he was fair, his skin as pale as a ghost’s, and his eyes were black. He—he took my mother, and she was never seen again.”
    “What makes you think it was a Sidhe and not a man,” Ewan challenged.
    “No man carries this.” St. Clair reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a dirk, very similar in design to the one she had seen on the altar last night. “ ’Tis called an athame. It is a ritual knife used in their sacred marriage ritual. I’ve done extensive research into Druid religion,” he said, passing the dirk to Stuart, who sat on his right. “The ancient Celtic priests carried similar objects and similarly worshipped the moon. The Sidhe, the Druids said, gave them this religion.”
    Her family looked at the earl as if he were mad. But Isobel knew he was sane, and more than that, correct. The Sidhe were real. So was Annwyn.
    “So you see, I will not invoke the wrath of the Sidhe. I will not hunt the hart. Leave it be,” the earl muttered as he began to eat his supper.
    “And you expect us to just swallow that rubbish,” Ewan scoffed.
    “What a delightful dinner,” Fiona said, with a glare at Ewan. “We are so happy to have you for Christmas, my lord. I do hope you are enjoying your stay here with us at MacDonald Hall.”
    Ewan grumbled and Isobel glanced away. The earl nodded and picked up his fork.
    “Shall you read A Christmas Carol again tonight?” Fiona asked Isobel’s father in what could only be a desperate attempt to get the dinner conversation back on track.
    “Of course, of course,” her father chuckled. “But first, I’d like to hear more about this hart. Crafty wee beastie, is he?”
    “He is indeed, Father. But do not worry. I will get him for you.”
    Isobel glared at Alistair. So did St. Clair, she noticed.
    “I would have a care, MacDonald, before you go taunting the beast,” the earl warned. “Leave the hart alone.”
    “And why is that?” Ewan asked.
    The earl sat back in his chair, his long, tapered fingers brushing against the blade of the athame that rested on the table. “Because you may very well find one of yours carried off in the night, never to be seen again.”

Chapter Eight
    The moonlight glittered on the snow-covered ground. From her window seat, Isobel sat and watched the snow gently falling. In her palm was the clan pin. The silver tingled in her hand, warming her palm. She felt the call of the enchantment, the whispering voice of Daegan. Come to me, muirnín, but she