by Amber Scott
He treated her like a lady. He was gentle but strong, and wanted only her happiness. However, his idle hands and all the adjusting were wearing down the walls of romance. She needed Jesse back. She needed him the way he was before. Cocky. Sure. Daring and a bit vulnerable. Last night, as she lay watching him breathe, the idea sprang into her head. Find some treasure!
She’d gotten her dad’s map back from Carla, who had outright refused to photocopy it and made her promise to handle it with the utmost care. Like she wouldn’t. That was Carla. Protective. Not only of Samantha, but of her father’s memory and legacy. A nice feeling. Foreign but nice.
Jesse halted at the riverbank, picked up a rock, and skipped it along the rumbling surface. Samantha stopped, giving him space. She tried to imagine what the river must have once been like. Higher? Mightier? Were the rocks she stood on once buried by the current?
She reached out her hand to touch his shoulder and let it fall. He was too far away, and the gesture seemed hollow, anyway. Feeling for the map in her backpack, Samantha sent up a small prayer for a little bit of magic today.
“There’s a tree here that should be marked?” She hated how hesitant she sounded.
Jesse turned his head. His profile, silhouetted by sunlight, struck her with its masculine beauty. He looked so rugged, so male. Her belly ached from the beauty of it, and her longing to return things to the way they once were grew stronger.
“Did you mark the tree yourself?” she asked, trying to engage him.
He shook his head. Still, no words.
Please, Jesse. “Do you know who did?”
He nodded. Samantha let out an exasperated breath. This was supposed to be fun. She dug deep, searching for another question.
“The shaman marked the tree,” Jesse finally said, his voice barely audible above the river.
“Shaman?” Hope sprang to life inside her.
Jesse turned, facing her. “The medicine man who gave me the whiskey helped me bury it. He marked the tree.” His gaze met hers. A half-grin tugged his cheeks. “He said it wasn’t for me but was for me. I was happy to see the thing buried.” He tipped his head a little. “Now I suppose I understand what he meant.”
As he walked to her, Samantha’s belly did a little flip. He laced his fingers in her hair and tilted up her face. She looked into his eyes, half worried, all hopeful. “You do?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” His eyes blazed with intensity, probed hers. “It was meant for you. You were meant for me.”
Unexpected tears stung her eyes. She nodded. She hoped, wherever he was, her father knew she was sorry for resenting him. She loved him.
“Your father found it so I could find you.”
Samantha nodded again. Not because this was news or because she agreed with him, more to encourage him to continue, to reach farther, deeper, until he could find a place where he knew this was all for the best and never, ever had to live with a doubt or regret. He needed that. She needed that.
A slow, lazy smile spread across his features, and a gleam shimmered in his eyes. “Henry found the whiskey, but I’ll bet you gold he didn’t find the money.”
Samantha chuckled, adoring the teasing note in his tone. “What money? You mean you really did bury treasure here? You mean my dad didn’t find it but was this close to it?”
Jesse winked, and kissed her long and hard. The kind of kiss that tickled toes and warmed a worried heart. He pulled away, lowered his hands, and smacked her ass. “Exactly.”
Samantha giggled. “Exactly?” Giddiness leapt through her.
“He found the treasure, but I bet if you and I poke around a bit, we’ll find the money.”
“Do you think? Even after all these years? After all the construction, changes?” She regretted the last question almost before the words were spoken. The cabins along the riverbank weren’t much of encroaching civilization. She had seen worse, but still ... kids playing in the trees, couples on long walks, someone surely would have found something.
“You have little faith in the man you love, Sammie.” He took her hand and led her up the rocky bank into the trees.
No more than fifteen yards deep, Jesse stopped in front of a marked tree. Sammie’s mouth fell open. The drawing on her father’s map was identical and now moot, when she had with her the one who’d hidden the treasure. A circle with four half-circles breaking the line, facing outward. Jesse traced a finger over the deep grooves and pulled up her hand to touch it.
She did and looked at him in wonder. Her giddiness grew. She’d brought him here to find acceptance, never truly thinking it would lead them to any actual treasure. Part of her thought he must be toying with her, teasing her, the way he used to do. She loved it either way. Her Jesse was back. She would do whatever was necessary to keep him.
“Can you feel that?” he asked, looking at her in a strange way.
“I think so.” She was unsure of what he meant but suspected it wasn’t the indentation of wood.
He kicked the ground. “The whiskey was here.” Leaves and dust lifted and settled. Jesse glanced around. They were alone. “And the money is ...” He pulled her a little closer, sliding her fingertips up the rough bark. A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of earth and water. Samantha smiled, mouth still slightly open, her gaze locked to Jesse’s. The mischief in them mesmerized her.
As their hands traveled upward, the rough bark rounded and smoothed slightly. What they searched for she couldn’t fathom. He must be teasing, but she wasn’t about to stop him. Her fingertips reached an apex. A deep crease where the trunk gave way to branches. Much farther, and her arm wouldn’t reach. She got onto her tiptoes, letting Jesse pull her up.
The crease stopped, and a small hole met her index finger. Her eyes widened. Jesse’s did too, his eyebrows arching and his smile broadening. “What have we here?” he whispered.
Samantha probed the hole, wondering how on earth it could hold any treasure. A soft, clicking sensation came from within the hole. A rustle of leaves brought her attention to the left, just beyond the tree. Jesse pulled her hand back down. Sammie furrowed her brow, following him around the tree. The ground looked the same other than a little dust until her gaze caught the discrepancy in the landscape.
Jesse knelt, gently tugging her with him. “How did you manage ...?” When he reached out and lifted the dirt-covered lid, she forgot the rest. Leaves, dirt, and rock spilled down, and a stream of sunlight snuck into what appeared to be a small buried vault. At the grayed, molded sack, her breath left her in a whoosh.
Jesse chuckled low. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love you, Sammie. Lord, I do.”
Samantha shook her head, took back her hand, and tackled him to the ground in a squealing hug. “You thief! I can’t believe this.”
“Thief?” Jesse hardly sounded offended.
“Yes, thief,” Samantha said, waggling the loot. “You stole a lot more than this. You stole my heart, too.”
“Guilty as charged, darlin’.” He pulled her close and kissed the tip of her nose “Guilty as charged.”
~The End~
~~~
Irish Moon
By Amber Scott
Chapter One
Tir Conaill, Ireland 1315
“Quiet, Finn. I canno’ hear with all your purring.” Breanne pressed her ear back against the gap between the heavy door and the stone wall. She swore the cat was doing it apurpose, goading her into leaving. He did not quiet, so she barely heard the voices discussing her future.
Finn licked his chest, ignoring her, but at least he remained in his wood floor seat this morn. Nearly every other one for the last fortnight they’d come to her mother’s chamber door to listen. And each became a waste when Finn grew restless and left, forcing her after him empty- handed. Her mother’s only rule of tolerance for the large cat taking residence with them was that he never be left on his own, a sure opportunity for mischief and destruction.
Today he stayed, and Breanne’s e
ver patient eavesdropping sounded as though it might bear fruit. For once, her instincts might prove accurate.
“I see no reason to press her,” her mother, Ula, said.
“She is well past a marrying age. Good men have asked for her hand. I am running out of excuses to give them.”
Breanne O’Donnell strained to hear her mother come to her defense. Soon, Niall would be Ula’s husband and have fatherly authority over Breanne. For now, he spoke merely as guardian and chieftain.
Ula replied softly but clearly. “She is interested in her studies and has only half completed her apprenticeship with Heremon. Allow her two more years to completion. Then, I promise, we’ll see her settled.”
“Two more years? She’s seen nineteen already,” Niall said, his voice rising. “You encourage the lass too much. Following the old ways puts her at risk.”
Breanne winced, but pressed her ear closer, careful not to breathe so loudly. It was worse than she’d feared.
“But, she may not be able to tell a husband of her training and I can’t deny her Ovate status, not when she’s so close. Even Heremon has come to agree it is her calling.”
“She is a healer. It is well known that Heremon is tutoring her in herbs and tonics. Why shouldn’t a husband be aware of the same? Dinna’ forget, there is her inheritance to be seen to.” Niall’s voice rose to a bellow.
Breanne pulled her head away a moment. She chewed her lip, knotted a strand of strawberry blonde hair around her finger. Her stomach clenched at the memory of her childhood home, left so many years ago.
“The keep is hers to do with as she will. Why not discuss the property with her instead? Mayhap she will rent it or even take residence in it, taking a guard along to protect it.”
“A husband will protect her.”
She would protect herself. Were she born a few hundred years before, she’d be allowed a hermit’s life if she wished. She’d be allowed to fight as a warrior, though she’d never choose to. The damned English Pale seemed to be influencing even their own northern tuath nowadays. Before long it might spread across the Giant’s Causeway to encroach the Highland clans.
“Ula, she’s been asked for again. If I excuse her unmarried state much longer, people will think me soft or worse of her.”
Breanne wanted to walk in and demand answers. Who had asked? Quinlan? Another? When had she been asked for?
“I don’t want to force her. She is no princess. Her marriage will not end a war or cause one. She should choose. And let them talk.”
Breanne silently thanked Ula. Her mother was the only one she had to stand up for her, and she was doing it well. Being stubborn went against her mother’s demure and nurturing nature, so her firm words bespoke the issue’s importance to her, as well.
There was a moment of silence. All she could hear was her heart thumping hard enough that her throat quivered. “Shane Ferguson is a good man, comes from a good family. A husband will give her a family, Ula.” His voice became softer. “And allow us one, as well.”
Finn’s tail swatted her skirt, shushing across the floor, leaving her unsure she’d heard the last of it right. She couldn’t have. Her mother was no longer young and though she bore Breanne at sixteen years, nineteen were certainly too many years for a womb to wait.
And allow us fun, as well? Some, as well? She searched her brain for a suitable word to make sense of what she couldn’t have heard correctly.
Alarm shot through her at the light tap of footsteps coming up the wooden stairway. She could not remain there. Besides, Heremon surely awaited her in the grove. If she arrived late again, she’d be punished with another deplorable jar dusting.
Five long years of study and she was finally nearing the topics that had sparked her ask to become an Ovate within the nigh extinct order. The Druid master didn’t like waiting and though her mother hadn’t finalized the decision, Breanne could not risk lingering.
She stood summarily, scooping Finn up with her, and shot down the hallway to the stairs. Few men lingered in the main hall, most busy outside practicing in arms, but of all of them, Quinlan was the last she likened to see. Reaching the bottom stair, Breanne scowled and lifted her chin, continuing her fast pace, hoping to look unapproachable.
She failed. Quinlan’s face lit up upon seeing her and he stepped in pace beside her. She glanced sideways and forced a small smile on her face. His smile grew and lit up his face. “I’ve been looking for you, Breanne. I thought you might enjoy an afternoon ride.”
“I canno’,” she said faster than she intended. He was so handsome he was nearly pretty with his copper brown hair and bright blue eyes. “I have preparations for the wedding to attend to,” she lied. Not only were her lessons to be kept private, she feared he would offer to escort her. She had absolutely no romantic interest in him. Not anymore.
“These are for you,” Quinlan said, suddenly in front of her and shoving a handful of lavender and heather to her nose, forcing her to stop.
Breanne’s mouth fell open to speak, but she found she could barely breathe. They were lovely, the very kind of bouquet she’d picked as a girl to bestow upon herself, pretending they were from him. Suddenly her childhood dreams of becoming Quinlan’s wife took on a sickening feeling.
“Thank you,” she said. She smiled weakly and inhaled their scent. She didn’t want to hurt him. She searched his eyes, didn’t want to see them filled with pain at her rejection.
He smiled, showing even white teeth, and her stomach grew more sickly. He was handsomer than St. Kevin himself.
How could one simple kiss change so much? She hated the question and the truth of it even more. One kiss that she’d dreamed of she would now remove from existence, uncast, were she able. The memory of it only worsened her urgency to leave him.
Thankfully, they were in plain sight of others in the hall, assuring he couldn’t kiss her again. It was bad enough that most were snickering and cooing over the obvious sign of courtship.
Quinlan stared at her a long awkward moment until she gestured past him. His face flooded with color. He stepped out of her way, coughing into his fist. She glanced uncomfortably away, no words coming to her, and gave up the effort. What could she possibly tell him to ease such palpable tension between them?
She ignored the pang in her chest at his crestfallen face, held Finn a bit tighter and left through the kitchen. Outside in the crisp spring air, Breanne slipped through the postern in the fortress yard, confident none saw her exit the small gate.
The lightness her escape of the bailey walls typically offered her didn’t come. The unusually sunny spring day was perfect for a ride. Or for a walk. Alone. If she hurried, she could reach the grove in time.
She wore a green cape attached at the shoulders of her lighter green gown to help blend and disguise her rushing form. She’d made the steep walk in worse weather, with less time to spare, and feeling less harried than she felt now. A funny nagging feeling in her belly seemed to grow with each step.
“A husband. The last thing I need now is a husband. Who could I possibly marry, let alone why?” she asked Finn through panting breath.
“Quinlan appears to be ready for the call of that duty,” Finn answered, the lisp of his feline mouth coating an extra layer of sarcasm. Once away from the keep, Finn made up for his forced quiet by having opinions and sharing them at every opportunity.
“You are a vile beast,” Breanne said and dropped the enchanted cat inherited with her third year of lessons.
He landed expertly and trotted after her. “He’s perfectly enamored with you. Anyone can see that.” Finn’s tone brimmed with gloating sarcasm.
“Oh? Even besotted, enchanted cats?” Breanne kicked a rock his way, knowing it would miss. She hated how right Finn was.
“France did well by him, I think,” Finn said. “He’s gotten some pluck since he returned.”
She’d hardly name the silly doe-eyed look as pluck. But, it seemed the only one Quinlan bestowed on her since his autumn r
eturn from six years abroad. Finn kept in stride with her, pouncing from rock to grassy dirt with springy ease.
“And what would you know about it?”
She knelt at a bush and retrieved the chalice hidden there. Setting the bundle of flowers down, she bent over the stream and captured water into it. Its encrusted rubies and sapphires warmed and brightened in the sunlight.
“You’re not my first mistress,” Finn said, teetering on a rock to dip his mouth to the water. “Do recall that I did exist long before you came into my life.”
Breanne resisted the strong urge to push him in.
“Pluck. I would have used a more explicit word, myself.” They’d each grown up during the six years and apparently his feelings for her were now adult in nature. “Brute comes to mind.”
Not a fortnight ago, he’d cornered her outside her chamber and kissed her soundly, pressing into her. His attraction was more than obvious, stabbing her hip. Although a curt slap had ended his assault, it had done little to dissuade him since.
“Mayhap he’ll ask for you.”
“Bite your tongue. I would rather marry you.”
“How terribly flattering. But, not possible since you cannot see fit to lift the curse, and after last night’s miserable failure, I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”
Breanne ignored the jab and his sour tone. She told herself again that she had so much more to learn, that it was still early to be expecting the kind of magick he needed to come readily. As Heremon always told her, magick takes more than talent. It takes persistence and study and practice, practice, practice.
“Hush now, you old lecher, we need to focus,” she said.
