by Karey Brown
“Nay, lass, verra much alive.”
Rules out Hell. “I need a phone. Have to—“
“Doona’ have one here, nor at the castle.”
“Castle?”
“Aye.”
Emily’s brow furrowed. “I was trying to find my way to MacLarrin Castle.”
“Confirmed! I told you—“
The demon held up his hand silencing the faceless voice. “You were in search of the MacLarrin?”
Emily didn’t like his tone. She liked his expression even less. “My company is looking into buying his castle.” She winced. Talking increased her pain. “I’m . . . supposed to take pictures . . . finalize the sale. Lost. Tried reading a map. Why are you glaring?”
“The castle is never, has never been for sale, milady. Where did you get a notion like that?”
She avoided eye contact. “I believe it was part of a ruse to get rid of me.” Shards of pain shot through her skull. “So my fiancé could marry his bitch.”
“Your intended plans to wed his hound?”
Almost, Emily laughed. The most she could offer was a snort. “A woman he’s been with, and I was too stupid . . . to read the signs.”
“Lass, lie back.” Garreck helped ease her back. “Seems ye’ ‘ave escaped a spineless bastard. Right now, what ye’ need most is better aid than borrowed magicks.”
“What?”
Her forehead sported a brazen gash, the swelling grave. Thank Danu, Garreck muttered in Gaelic, she’d been unconscious when he’d reset her shoulder. That the woman was both awake and alert was attributed to powerful magic, but he was no fool. Sunrise would hear her death march without Aunsgar’s direct touch. Her amber eyes were glazing, her soft lips turning blue.
“Too much pain.” Her lids weighed down, his mumbling a soothing lullaby. “Think I’ll take your advice,” she whispered. “And rest.” Emily exhaled so deeply, Garreck halted his Elvish words inducing her into a deep slumber. Long moments passed before she inhaled again, her breathing now labored.
“She won’t last the night. Aunsgar must come to her.”
“Here?” Allen’s voice quivered. “No chance we could just call upon a modern doctor?”
“Skirtit . . . daith . . . Dezenial.” Tears streamed from Emily’s closed eyes.
Resembling a man faced with his own death, Garreck slowly turned on booted heel and stared down at the unconscious woman.
“Run quickly, death? She speaks Gaelic as well as you!” Allen became animated. “Now do you believe me? I tell you, it’s her! What’s the word ‘Dezenial’ mean? Don’t recognize that one.”
“Not what, Sassenach, who.”
She muttered more, this time in a language Allen had never heard.
“You pale as if death comes to collect you,” the spirit whispered. “You impossibly fear nothing. This is going from bad to worse.”
“She . . . she speaks in a language I have not heard in well over three thousand years.”
“Fascinating, chap. What does she say?”
“She speaks the guarded language of a Quemorian.”
Allen sputtered. As if his head sat upon a hinge, he looked several times from Garreck to the woman sleeping on his sofa. “Now you have no choice but to believe me. You must tell me what she keeps muttering. She’s becoming frantic.”
Garreck stared at Emily for long moments.
“Mi’lord?”
“She calls for Dezenial. He be the Lumynari prince, Sassenach,” green eyes flicked to Allen. “Ye’ have far more ta’ fear, spirit, should that one arrive, than the Elves ye’ quake around.” Garreck stormed out, leaving behind a choking scholar. Even the deceased mortal knew to fear Lumynari.
* * * * *
Warmth enveloped her. Deeper, she burrowed amongst softness, nothing more decadent than heavy quilts and the faint scent of—coffee! Emily’s eyes snapped open. She blinked several times just to be sure the incredible sight she beheld.
Man.
Exquisite man. Very long dark golden hair, dual thin braids cascading from temple to shoulder. His strong hand deftly plucked the burden of a large serving tray from an older woman, setting it upon a cozy table for two. Gorgeous man. Edible.
Definitely Heaven this time, though still not pristine white.
“ ‘Tis uncanny. She looks ta’ have stepped back amongst us as if nothing more than a nap took her away instead of thirty-six hundred years.”
“She’s a modern.” Gorgeous man poured a dollop of scotch into a silvery stein. “I advise wariness. Unless scientifically proven, they have a tendency to believe nothing.” He cast a gaze upward at the elder, watching as she arranged heavily scented lilacs.
“Took the liberty of bakin’ a few sweet breads,” she said more to herself than the man scowling.
“Maeve—“
“The soul remembers, mi’ lord.” The woman backed away, eyeing her handiwork. “Most especially hers.” Rounding the small table, she stood in front of his tall frame. “Have ye’ never met someone and experienced instant hatred so deep yer’ belly burned? Or love at first sight? Think you ‘tis just a saying?”
“Foolish notions for the romantic. I ceased believing in love a very long time ago.”
“Think you, she returns now, having finally forgiven us?” Even from where she lay, Emily could see the age-softened eyes sparkled with hope.
His remained cold.
Seemingly immune to his aloofness, the old woman continued chatting. “Aunsgar arrives again today. He worries. Too many days, the wee lass has slumbered—“
Emily sneezed.
“Milady!”
The man’s hand snaked out, halting the woman’s advance. “Leave us.”
Visibly crestfallen, the woman pocketed eyefuls of Emily before bustling from the chamber.
Emily wasn’t too sure she was happy about being left with this . . . he was staring at her.
Oh-oh.
Eyes, midnight dark and glittering with animosity, remained unblinking. His five o’clock shadow was joined by a mustache that came down in thin lines each side of his . . . mouth. Emily frowned. Another sneeze escaped her. She’d kissed that mouth before. Extensively.
Never again will such an occurrence transpire, Keer’dra.
Emily flinched. Above and around, there didn’t exist another in the chamber. Who had spoken? And how could anyone own such an erotic voice? Again, she looked to the man still staring at her. Definitely not him. His mouth remained clamped like a disapproving schoolmarm.
“Where am I? Who are you? Last time I opened my eyes, I was in purgatory. Or was that a dream?” This last part was said more to herself.
“You find yourself in my home, Castle MacLarrin, my chambers, to be exact. I am Broc MacLarrin.” She waited for a snappy salute to follow. None came. Castle MacLarrin. Quite by accident, she’d found the place. She sneezed, coughing hard.
“God, my ribs ache.”
“You are weak and need to regain your strength. Since you’ve decided to awaken, you will eat.”
Well, isn’t he just a bundle of joy—not! Another Peter. Lovely. “Can I trouble you to share your coffee?”
Curtly nodding, Broc turned towards the table set for two in front of a gorgeous stone fireplace. Indian type leggings hugged very masculine thighs, a long shirt with cuffs draping strong hands—those hands had been all over her body. No. Wrong.
I’ve never seen him before. Yet . . . I really need to lay off reading historical romances. Too bad Peter didn’t even come close to being like those heroes! Emily sat up, disentangling bitter memories of her fiancé marrying—she was dressed in an oversized shirt. Outstretching her arms, she marveled at the fabric whispering against her skin. Delicately, she fingered the fine white material . . . a shirt very similar to the one he currently wore. “I remember my head bleeding,” she frowned. So where was all the blood—braless! Oookay, this wasn’t awkward. “I bashed my head and . . .”
Trembling fingers reached up to dab where
she remembered pain.
Silver coffeepot paused, the man scrutinizing her. “Careful. Tenderness should still exist.”
Her fingers made contact with stitches. Instantly nauseated, she swallowed revulsion. Thank God I slept through that! “My neck hurts too.”
“I did not allow Colin to shave your hair, but sewing your flesh could not be helped. As for your neck . . . time will care for your wounds.”
His irritation was palpable. Emily’s guard inched higher.
“You are lucky to be alive.” He stirred sugar into her coffee. “Apparently, you and automobiles do not co-exist.”
“If there’s a doctor’s bill, I can pay.” Dick.
“I own the doctor.”
“Then why the anger?”
His rolled R’s were delicious. His tone was biting. Thunder clapped. Involuntarily, she slightly cowered. Rumbling skies rattled leaded glass windows.
“Another storm upon us,” he muttered.
Is he implying I’m a storm?
Closing in on her, his dark eyes matched the violence brewing outdoors.
“I don’t like storms. I don’t like storms, or waking up in a stranger’s bed and missing my own clothes.” Innuendos right back at you, buddy!
“Your clothing is beyond repair. Are you ready to try food?”
“You want me to get up?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t have pants on. In fact, how did I end up in,” she held out her arm, “this? If you found me, and I . . . I distinctly remember blood oozing down my face before blacking out.”
“I bathed you.”
“You bathed me?”
“Aye.”
“In the nude?”
“I was fully clothed.”
“Not you, jerk, ME!”
Dark brow arched menacingly. “How else would one-be-bathed?”
“Don’t you dare enunciate each word as if dealing with a child, you . . . you perv!”
I will boil him until he screams for mercy of death, Keer’dra!
“Stop calling me Keer’dra, I’m Emily!”
“I ken who ye’ are!”
“Then why are you calling me by that name?”
Broc stepped back, his face ashen.
“My God! Was that woman at least present when you bathed me?”
His chest swelled. “I allowed none entrance.”
“These clothes?” Her trembling fingers covered her mouth.
“You wear my shirt. My finest.”
“And the panties? Your wife’s?”
“My wife died many, many years ago.”
“Oh.” Something passed over his face she did not wish to view again. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I.” He lunged, wrenching the heavy blankets from her.
“Hey!” Emily smacked at his arms, his chest, and clutched his short beard like a roller coaster safety latch. Roaring, he lifted her in one swift move.
“Let go of my face!”
“Try anything, and it comes off.” She sniffed loudly. “You smell nice.”
He grinned. It completely rearranged his features. He was gorgeous. Gone was the savagery. Dark eyes melded with golden ones.
I’ve done this before. A man she’d felt powerful love towards had carried her much in the same fashion. Slowly, her fingers relaxed their grip to instead caress his face, his beard tickling her palm. Her gaze fell to his mouth. “Why do I know you? How do I know you?”
“I have no idea.” Non-too gently, she was deposited into an overstuffed chair. Yanking long shirt over her thighs, he remained indifferent to her near nakedness. Big surprise. Probably took his full when I was unconscious. Louse. Shame and fury heated her face while watching him yank free a blanket from the huge bed. Heaving the coverlet, he strode towards her, his scowl matching her own.
“Here,” he grumbled, tucking it around her legs. “Weather changes rapidly, preferring cold. You have been ill.”
“Gee, thanks. I think.”
When he took his own chair, leggings tightened across oh-so-defined thighs. Gah, to be jealous of fabric . . .trancelike, she watched him methodically butter a swollen blueberry muffin. Her mouth rivered. Wonder his reaction if I jump him, seize the muffin—
He eyed her suspiciously. Hesitantly, he held out the treat. Emily snatched and mauled it apart, stuffing hot pieces into her mouth, fanning the morsels scalding her tongue.
“Maeve will return with what you refer to as dinner.”
Emily chewed, swallowed, nodded, and swallowed again. “How long have I been here?”
He set his cup down. Dark eyes gored her soul. Her stomach knotted.
“My bed has been rendered useless for a week.”
She stopped chewing what now tasted like cardboard. “A week?”
“Yes. Swallow before you choke. There are drivers-for-hire on your side o’ the,” he cleared his throat. “You should utilize them for future traveling. Drink your coffee, Emily, ‘twill soothe you, as well as make it easier to get down that unladylike mouthful you convulse on.”
“Soothe me? And what would you know about being a lady? Been practicing? You know what? I didn’t ask to be brought here.”
“Nor were you invited.”
“Then why didn’t you just have me taken to a hospital? Jesus, but you’re uncouth.”
“You remain here to protect ye’ from yourself. Apparently, whomever your male lordship is, he lacks ability to control the females under his charge.”
Emily shot out of her chair, blanket flopping to her shins. “Allow me to end your chore of suffering my presence.” She stepped over the damn blanket and away from the cozy little coffee party. “You will be duly paid for your troubles, and any doctors’ fees incurred.”
“I doubt it. Where do you think you’re going?” His arched brow mocked her. “Another drive perhaps?”
Fury confiscated her ability to form words, let alone insults. She did the next best thing. Vacated the room, slamming her exit. I’ve had enough male judgments! He bathed me! Touched me! Then rips me apart with words and attitude. Screw him! I am so tired of feeling like I’m everyone’s pariah. Always, I’m in someone’s way; inconvenient. First, Aunt Millie, and then Peter. And now, this aristocratic prick! Well, screw him and his castle! Peter probably forewarned him that he dumped me, the two of them having a good laugh. Bet it pisses him off to no end that I couldn’t just take my photos of his stupid castle and be on my way. Sorry I was run off the rode by one of your dimwitted drivers, Mr. Kilt. Won’t trouble you one more second.
Male voices intermingled with laughter and singing. Food permeated the air. But which way was it coming from? Castle corridors really need diagrams with arrows or green exit signs hanging from above. Panicked, Emily sprinted, heedless of direction, just coherent she must get away from him.
Booted heels quacking against stone floor made her leap into a darkened alcove. Pressing back, she flinched when closer than she’d realized, he started shouting in a foreign language. Almost, she giggled. A gorgeous Highlander chased her throughout a castle.
Oooh, look, I’m even scantily clad. Gah! I’ve stepped right off the pages of one of my historical novels.
Shouting erupted from far off. More booted feet running. Darting out like a fox from hounds, Emily ran towards the chaos she could hear. Great hall meant great door to the great outdoors! Great escape!
“Emily!”
Her shirt was seized, spinning her.
Her fist smashed into his face. Sudden release forced her to backpedal or fall. “It pays to befriend a Marine. I’ve got more, you touch me again.”
The MacLarrin lunged.
Screaming, Emily sprinted around a stone bend, and was brought up short for all of five seconds. Below her, far exceeding her imagination, yawned a room doused with trestle tables, three giant hearths, and so many men in tartans, plaids, whatever! Highland gear! Refusing to dwell on borrowed shirt hiking up to her thighs as she side-saddled the glossy, thick balustrade, she rocket
ed downward.
His bellowing cannoned behind her, jerking the men out of their stupor over a near-naked woman zipping towards them. Emily jumped down the last several steps, freezing stone killing her bare feet. A sword glinted from the dark bend not far from the path of her crazed run. Sweet! In one fell swoop, she confiscated the sword, leapt up onto a bench and onto the table, spun, sword thrusting.
Sir Butthead was brought up short.
“Not so threatening now that a sword’s to your face, eh?”
He remained mute.
“Call a taxi. I’m leaving.”
“Och, but the woman is foyne beauty wieldin’ yer sword, MacLarrin.”
“Shut up, fool! Toss me yers’!”
“Ye’ canna be meanin’ ta’ fight the wee lass! She’s near naked, mohn!”
“She’s a wee lass. What harm could she possibly incur?” another voice chimed.
“I’m dressed enough to maim or kill anyone dumb enough to come near me!” Emily sliced the air a couple of times for emphases, accidentally nicking her nemesis’ short beard. “Perhaps my initials would be preferable to that thatch you grow?” She’d cut him. She’d actually cut his face. I’m so dead.
“S’blood, the lass embraces insolence!” Wagers were shouted as a black hilted sword sailed through the air. Obsidian eyes locked on her, his arm raised, effortlessly catching the hilt.
“Well, now you’re armed and seemingly talented. Nice little circus act you’ve acquired. Tell me, do you clap your hands and bark for fish as well?”
Roars of laughter rang out, except from the man facing her down. He looked ready to kill. Emily raised her chin. Well, who knew my hobby would turn into self-defense? ‘Course, En Guard would really sound stupid right now. DIE would be more appropriate.
“Think you, she remembers?”
“Remembers what?” Emily snapped. Realization strangled. “Did all of you watch him bathe me?”
“The laird accusin’ ye’ of—“
Emily heard flesh against flesh, a groan of pain following.
“We ‘ave been forbidden to speak of it. ‘Twill only frighten her.”
“What will frighten me? That I’ll discover this heathen put his hands all over my body?” Emily glowered. “Trust me, the gig is up.” She stepped down onto the bench and onto freezing floor. Enraged, she advanced against his retreat.
