by Cindy Miles
Ethan watched, intrigued. He had no clue.
Aiden scratched his jaw. ‘‘Mayhap she’s mad? Look you how she fights invisible enemies.’’
‘‘Aye, as if there’s a soul really there, fightin’ back,’’ said Rob.
Ethan had to agree. The lass was indeed odd. She had managed to move the big sofa and flanking chairs off of the long, wide rug before the hearth, stood in the middle of that rug, and then ensued to work up a fierce lather, kicking and striking at the air, with an occasional Hi-yah! amidst even more fierce grunts.
‘‘Damn me, but look at the girl’s belly,’’ Torloch said. ‘‘She’s got bluidy muscles there.’’
‘‘More likely than no’, ’tis because of how she kicks her leg so high and punches with such fierceness,’’ Gilchrist, who’d been unusually quiet since the American had arrived, said. He glanced at Ethan. ‘‘She’s the one.’’
In truth, Ethan agreed with his brother. He had never seen anyone—not even a warrior—fight so ferociously with no weapons in hand, no’ to mention no opponent. ’Twas as though an invisible source attacked her thusly, one only she could see. Intrigued even more, Ethan, along with his kin, moved closer.
With one final shout and spinning kick in the air, the lass landed in a crouched position, slowly rose, and bowed. Breathing heavily, she bent over at the waist, her head hanging down, her hands braced against her knees. The revealing black tunic, hacked off at the midriff, left almost as little to the male imagination as the skintight black trews she wore. Damn him, but he couldn’t help how his gaze froze to that round, lush backside.
Until the girl tensed, bent even farther over at the waist, and peered at him from betwixt her knees.
‘‘Och, hell, Ethan. She’s spied us,’’ Sorely said under his breath.
‘‘Think you she can hear us, as well?’’ Rob said. He gave a low whistle and scratched his head. ‘‘Damn receptive, she is.’’
Ethan closed his eyes and called forth a rather pleasant image: himself, strangling his two bumbling kinsmen. Even so, he opened his eyes and stared at the girl, still bent over, round rump in the air. Saints, what a sight. Then she slowly rose, until her posture stood as erect as a stone statue, shoulders back, chest heaving with each breath. Scared? Aye, she was. But strangely enough, she wasn’t running. He exchanged a brief glance with Aiden, whose amused look irritated him for some reason, and then he had no other choice but to clear his bluidy throat and address the lass, before she thought them all a big lot of idiots and left Munro Keep for good.
Ethan took a step forward, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the girl’s head. He cleared his throat. ‘‘Lass, we’ve need to have speech with you.’’
The girl’s shoulders began to shake.
Ethan took yet another step forward. ‘‘Er, lass?’’
This time, a snort escaped her. Then she turned and faced him. Was that a bluidy grin on her face? After a deep breath, she walked toward him, stopped, and looked up. Her already-wide eyes widened even more, but still she did not bolt.
‘‘Hello. I realize you’re a powerful figment of my lonely, haven’t-had-sex-in-way-too-long imagination’’— her eyebrows lifted as she looked at him from boot tip to eyelash—‘‘but I’d prefer you to stay nice and safe in my dreams, if you please.’’ She smiled wide, showing scores of straight, white teeth. ‘‘All of you.’’
She stepped around Ethan, dodged Sorely and Gilchrist, gave Torloch a wide berth, and even smiled at Rob. But as she approached that smiling jackass, Aiden, by the cross, he sidestepped, as did she, once, twice—until the lass huffed and stormed ahead.
And walked straight through him.
With a squeak, the American stopped, her jaw slid open, and she made a strangled sound that Ethan did not fancy in the least. Then she took off at a dead run, straight to the great hall door.
‘‘Stop her, Ethan, before she gets away!’’ Rob shouted, looking as though he may just take off after her.
‘‘Nay,’’ Ethan said. He kept his eyes trained on the storyteller until she was out of sight. ‘‘Let her alone for now. She’ll come to us.’’
Gilchrist walked up and stood next to him. ‘‘How do you know?’’
Ethan recalled the girl’s intriguing eyes. ‘‘She will.’’
And he prayed mightily that she would.
Chapter 4
A week later, and no matter what Amelia did, she couldn’t get the vision out of her head. You know: that vision. Even though she’d seen nothing more of said vision—or of those amazing pewter-colored eyes, swarthy skin, and long, dark hair of the leader of said vision, the memory remained. Embedded. Emblazoned. Digging deep into her thoughts like an unwavering, gritty worm chewing its way to the core of an apple. Her brain was the apple.
That warrior—Ethan—was the worm.
Chomp chomp, chomp chomp . . .
Of course, had she not been busy dreaming of fourteenth-century Scottish warriors every single night since, perhaps she would have been able to exile the memory. Not only was she thinking about those same six big warriors who had watched her work out, but she was thinking about the fact that she’d run straight through one of them. All big, all wearing the same colored and patterned plaid wraps, all armed with very big swords, all ferocious-looking.
‘‘You are a nutcase, Landry,’’ Amelia said to herself in the mirror. She smeared on a few more globs of green clay facial mask, leaving only her eyes, nostrils, and lips exposed. So intense were the nightly dreams that not only had they completely exhausted her during the waking hours of the day, but they’d provided excellent fodder for her new novel.
Not that it was in any way, shape, or form organized, that novel. But she had an idea. And it was unlike anything she’d ever written before. The idea was still fermenting in her brain, but hopefully she’d have a Eureka! moment very soon. If only the dreams didn’t have so many plot holes . . .
Finished applying the clay mask, Amelia turned out the bathroom light, fished her thinking ball— which was a tennis ball with the words Think, dammit, think! written on it—out of the trunk, slipped on her sneakers, and started for the door. A nice walk through the cool, creepy corridors, in her comfy yoga pants and long-sleeved MonsterCon T-shirt, while the mask worked miracles on her pores would be just the thing to get her mind working before bedtime. After a hearty supper of Guthrie’s pot roast and potatoes, she needed to walk anyway. A too-full belly would no doubt lead to horrible nightmares. At least that’s what her granny had always told her.
Slipping into the passageway, Amelia turned right out of her room and walked slowly, tossing the tennis ball in the air and catching it as she let her mind wander.
She’d read the book ZuZu had given her from cover to cover. The Bluidy Munro was truly a fearful specter to be reckoned with. According to lore, the Munro and his clansmen, in cahoots with the devil, mind you, murdered innocent young women in an attempt to steal their souls—so they could live forever—and then would hang their soulless bodies out for the villagers to see. Merciless. Cold-blooded. Psychos. She hadn’t felt any of those things. Sure, there’d been pranky-pranks played on her, like the string of her shirt being tugged. But malevolent threats? Not a single one.
Amelia tossed the ball high.
It didn’t come back down.
Amelia peered into the shadows of the ceiling above but didn’t see anything. No ball. No Bluidy Munro. No sexy Highland warrior. Nothing.
For some reason, that made her wonder a big, fat something.
Were the guys real? Were they ghosts? Sheesh, she’d never had a ghostly encounter before, but she’d not dismissed the phenomenon, either. Haunted stuff fascinated her. She loved it. Every October she was glued to the History Channel, which had dozens of episodes of Scariest Places on Earth running the entire month. So why did she have such a hard time believing she’d seen six big warriors in the great hall?
Amelia blew out a breath. ‘‘Okay. Uncle. I give up,’’
she said, tight-lipped since the mask had dried into concrete. She peeked around without moving her head. ‘‘I’m an educated woman with a third-degree black belt in tae kwon do.’’ God, she sounded like an idiot, talking out loud to no one. ‘‘So. If you’re there, show me. Educate me. Because right now, all the silly little pranks you’ve been playing on me are not helping . . . your, er, . . . cause.’’ She blinked as the word died on her lips. The ball dropped down and bounced into an alcove.
The warrior from her dreams walked out of that same shadowy alcove and stopped not three feet away, and Amelia’s lips went numb. He looked quite solid, and the dim light from the wall lamp did little to reveal anything other than half his face, half his body, which included one of his arms crossed over one side of his chest, that silver band encircling a big rocky bicep, and the monster-sized sword strapped to his back. Shadows colored the other half of him black.
Two dark brows pulled together into a fierce scowl as he drew closer and peered at her face. ‘‘Dunna run away, lass. I willna hurt you.’’ He cocked his head. ‘‘What the bluidy hell is that?’’
Amelia, now only able to purse her lips, squeaked out a response. ‘‘Clay.’’ Adrenaline slammed through her veins and her heart slammed inside her chest, she was so scared. Too scared to run, for sure. Too scared to move, much less anything else.
The man nodded. ‘‘Good. ’Twill keep you quiet whilst I speak.’’
Amelia tried to frown, but the clay did indeed keep her face in check. ‘‘Who are you?’’ God, she wanted to run screaming down the corridor, but she was glued to the very stones of the passageway floor. She’d called him forth, and now she didn’t know what on earth to do with him. ‘‘What are you? A ghost?’’ In the back of her sick, demented mind, she wished for a pad of paper, or better yet, her laptop, to jot everything down, just to make sure she didn’t forget a single detail of the insane moment. Although it was probably just a bad case of castle fever, and she was imagining the whole thing in her slowly deteriorating mind. Next she’d be chasing poor Guthrie around the castle with an ax, maniacal grin plastered to her face, shouting ‘‘Here’s Meelie!’’
‘‘I’m no’ a spirit.’’ He eyed her, frowning. ‘‘Are you going to bolt, lass?’’
Amelia gave a shaky laugh, and she felt the hard clay on her face crack. ‘‘I’m not sure just yet.’’ She wasn’t sure if knowing he wasn’t a ghost made her feel better, or worse. If he wasn’t a ghost, then . . . what was he?
‘‘Fair enough, girl. Mayhap ’twould be best if we had speech in the hall.’’ His mouth quirked at the corners. ‘‘Space aplenty for you to run, if the notion strikes you.’’
Drawing a deep breath, Amelia blew it slowly out. ‘‘Okay.’’ She turned and glanced behind her, at the direction she’d come from. ‘‘I’ve got to wash this off . . .’’
When she turned back around, the big warrior had disappeared.
A shiver ran through Amelia as she hurried to her room, glancing at every darkened shadowy alcove and cubby space she passed. If he wasn’t a ghost, which made her give pause and question her own sanity for even considering such, then what was he? He’d just disappeared before her eyes. Well, almost, but no way could a man that big run away without her noticing. He had to be every inch of six foot seven. She was a tall girl herself at five foot ten, and she’d had to lean her head way back to look him in the eye.
As Amelia slipped inside her room, she paused. Had the whole thing really happened? Maybe all the seclusion was driving her insane. Maybe she’d thought the whole thing up.
Dunna keep me waiting, lass . . .
Amelia gulped as she checked the sexy voice that had suddenly appeared inside her head. With an apprehension she’d never experienced, except for that one time she and her brothers had been caught by the school principal lighting Black Cats and throwing them into a big metal trash can behind the band room, Amelia hurried through the washing of her face and then slipped out of the room.
Only then did she give a brief thought to just how bossy the no-ghost warrior was.
Minutes later, Amelia, stomach in knots, took the last step off the staircase and entered the great hall. She scanned the spacious, dim room, until her gaze found his. And that’s when her breath jammed in her lungs, and she did everything in her power not to wheeze or fall into a coughing spell. Partially because she knew in her heart she was looking at someone of the supernatural nature, or at least someone from another century who’d somehow become trapped. That was her guess, anyway. Partially, too, because the enormous man taking up quite a lot of space near the hearth was, hands down, the most enigmatic, potent male she’d ever been in the presence of—even if he was a figment of her imagination. Or trapped in some odd supernatural gap in time. All of her peculiar critiques of the situation made her feel somewhat comforted. Enough not to run screaming out the front door, anyway.
Amelia took a deep breath and walked across the hall. The plaid-draped warrior stood with a wide, masculine stance, an arrogant lift to his square chin, and with a muscle clinching at his jaw. His arms were folded across his massive chest, biceps cut out of stone and sheathed by wide bands of silver. Piercing pewter eyes remained trained on hers, unflinching as she took each fake-brave step, and even if she’d wanted to, Amelia didn’t have the strength to look away. The word mesmerized came to mind. Finally, she stopped, keeping the sofa between them. To say her throat was tight and the air wouldn’t even budge from her lungs was an understatement. She sincerely hoped she didn’t wheeze out loud.
She was freaking petrified out of her gourd.
And the fact that this guy—Ethan—studied her with such scrutinizing intensity made her fight the urge to squirm where she stood. Inconspicuously shifting her weight, Amelia clenched her hands together behind her back, kept her own gaze glued to his, and waited for him to speak first. Finally, he did.
‘‘You’ve heard of me, aye?’’ he said.
The words sounded almost unintelligible, so heavy and deep the accent. Amelia concentrated and thought a moment. ‘‘I’m not even sure you’re standing there.’’
She thought his mouth tipped up at the corner, but she couldn’t be sure.
The big guy continued to stare. ‘‘I’m Ethan Munro.’’ He inclined his head slightly. ‘‘You’re in my keep, lass. Know you not who the owner is?’’
Amelia shrugged. ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Conaway?’’ That’s the couple ZuZu claimed owned it, anyhow, and she’d shucked out a pretty penny for the summer lease, too.
‘‘No’ the true owners.’’ He cocked his head and frowned. ‘‘Need I convince you of my presence?’’
Amelia considered. And then considered some more. Rubbing her chin, she asked the question that she darn well knew the answer to. ‘‘Was it you who warned me away from that door over there?’’ She pointed at the door. ‘‘And pulled my shirt strings? Scared my cat?’’
He moved toward her. ‘‘And blew on yer neck scores of times, aye.’’ Again, the corner of his very sexy mouth tipped up—barely noticeable, even, but it was there. Amusement. ‘‘You, lass, snore like a seasoned warrior.’’
Amelia stared, skeptical, of course. If she were making the whole vision of Ethan Munro up, then by God, her visions had certainly improved. From what she could recall, her last vision involved a Whopper and large fries. Extra onions.
Ethan came around the sofa, edged closer to Amelia, and stopped a few feet away. He had those big arms crossed at the chest, legs braced wide, and the hilt of that big sword poking out of a leather sheath over his right shoulder. Which means he’d reach for the sword with his left hand, which means he’s a southpaw . . .
With absolutely no shame whatsoever, Ethan openly watched every move Amelia made. He studied her, those unusual silvery eyes inspecting her feet, her legs, waist, breasts—where he spent a little too much linger time—and finally, her face. Being a professional people watcher, which had given her access to various and sundry personality traits for
her characters, Amelia got the immediate sense that Ethan was scared of no one, that he did what he pleased, and he didn’t care a bit what people thought of him.
Amelia liked that.
‘‘You’re a verra big lass.’’
Hmm. Apparently, he spoke his mind without pause, too. She frowned. ‘‘Well, that proves it.’’
He cocked a dark brow. ‘‘Proves what?’’
Amelia stepped forward and looked up. ‘‘You must be real, because a figment of my imagination would gush about my beauty. Not voice their opinion about my largeness.’’
‘‘I didna say you were large. I said verra big.’’
‘‘Well, then.’’ She fought the urge to tug her T-SHIRT down over her obviously big behind. Damn her daddy for passing on the bubble-butt gene. ‘‘That certainly clears it all up.’’ She chanced a look at his face, and he had that darn almost-smirk on again. Better to change gears, she thought, from her verra big physique—whatever—to something a little less embarrassing. ‘‘The name’s Amelia, by the way.’’ She extended her hand. ‘‘Amelia Landry.’’ Although she thought the use of the word lass was pretty darn cute.
Her hand hung in midair. Ethan didn’t reach for it. Looked at it, but didn’t reach for it.
He inclined his head to her outstretched hand. ‘‘Odd, the customs you modern maids possess.’’ Ethan’s gaze moved to hers. ‘‘But with regret, I cannot accept your greeting.’’
Dropping her hand, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight. ‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Because, Ms. Landry,’’ he said, his voice heavy, thick, his gaze intense. ‘‘I’ve no substance.’’
Giving his incredible physique another once-over, Amelia had a difficult time believing he lacked substance. As a matter of fact, Ethan Munro all but leaked substance all over the great hall floor. ‘‘Who are you, exactly? I mean, I’ve seen you. Before.’’ She shrugged one shoulder. ‘‘In a dream.’’
The naughty grin that lifted both corners of his mouth made Amelia’s throat go very dry.
