Highland Knight

by Cindy Miles

  ‘‘I’ve been the object of many a lass’s dream, Ms. Landry.’’

  Gulp.

  Taking in an inconspicuous breath, Amelia blew it out slowly, then narrowed her gaze. ‘‘Well, Mr. Munro—’’

  ‘‘Ethan.’’

  ‘‘Ethan’’—she took a brave step in his direction— ‘‘you’ve yet to answer even one of my questions in full. Why is that, if you were so adamant about speaking with me?’’

  The grin disappeared from the warrior’s face, an intense, stern one in its stead. ‘‘ ’Tis not my intention to play games with you, Ms. Landry. I had to make sure you could stomach the truth.’’

  ‘‘Which is?’’

  After a second of solid staring into her eyes, which more than set Amelia on edge, Ethan turned and paced, with an occasional swipe of his hand to his jaw. Finally, he stopped by the hearth, facing its empty depths. ‘‘What sort of dreams have you been having of late, lass?’’

  Amelia considered. ‘‘Well, you’re in them, for one. Perfect detail, right down to that half-moon scar by your eye.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Bizarre.’’

  Ethan didn’t move a muscle. ‘‘What else?’’

  Over the past week, Amelia in fact had dreamed the most strangest of dreams involving the big man standing in front of the fireplace. ‘‘It’s all disjointed, really,’’ she said. ‘‘Lacking coherence to the point of frustration.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘But it’s given me great ideas.’’ Moving around the sofa, she started toward the hearth. ‘‘Do you know why I’m here?’’

  Still, he didn’t look at her. ‘‘I heard you’re a bard of sorts.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ A bard. She liked that. ‘‘In the dream, I see you, and others dressed like you, in the same color plaids. You’re fighting another group of guys.’’ She thought for a moment. ‘‘I think there’s a dead body on the ground between the two groups of men. The rest is mostly a lot of sword fighting and battle scenes.’’ She looked at his profile. Strong jaw, straight nose, long dark hair, a muscle clenching in his cheek. ‘‘I wonder if I haven’t gone crazy. Am I really here alone? Have I just imagined you, Guthrie, the other non-ghosts?’’ She ducked her head, to get a better view of his face. ‘‘Am I? Crazy?’’

  Ethan drew in a hearty breath, then turned to look at her. ‘‘Touch me.’’

  Amelia blinked. ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  He inclined his head. ‘‘Touch me. It doesna matter where.’’

  She quirked a brow. ‘‘You do realize that you’re giving perfect permission to an almost-thirty-year-old female with a vivid imagination to touch you anywhere? ’’

  The tenseness in his features eased a bit, a tiny spark flashed in his silvery eyes, but he said nothing. Only gave a short nod.

  Not that she couldn’t promise not to cop a feel. Even if Ethan Munro was only a figment of her imagination, she couldn’t promise not to try.

  So, she copped a feel.

  Rather, she tried to.

  Even as Amelia reached for that big, cut-from-granite bicep, the reality of what was about to happen registered in her brain before she grasped the signal said pitiful brain was trying to send.

  Like touching an image cast by an old movie projector, Amelia’s hand slipped right through Ethan.

  She could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at what she thought to be a living, breathing man. She’d obviously thought wrong. The words she wanted desperately to say simply wouldn’t form, instead getting all jumbled up in her mouth and forming nothing that made a lick of sense.

  Ethan held up a hand to shush her. ‘‘Nay, girl, I’m no’ a ghost. I told you that.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Amelia said, finding her tongue useful once more, and taking a few swipes through his person to make sure she’d seen correctly, ‘‘what the heck are you, then?’’

  ‘‘Enchanted,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re all bluidy enchanted.’’

  Amelia stared at him a moment. Had he said we’re?

  Ethan’s gaze fell behind her, and she turned just as the other warriors appeared.

  Chapter 5

  "At least Jack Torrence had a freaking ax . . ." But what good would an ax do if it’d pass straight through the body you were hacking at?

  ‘‘Easy, lass,’’ Ethan said, his voice deep, soothing. ‘‘ ’Tis naught but my kin, from before. They willna hurt you.’’

  Amelia met each warrior with a shaky breath. Just like before, when she’d been caught doing her tae kwon do sets, they looked real enough, the same as Ethan. Each carried a giant sword over his shoulder, long hair, midcalf boots, and the same plaid pattern and color as Ethan’s. They were the same guys from before.

  The one, Aiden, looked as though he’d love to have her for supper, one slow lick at a time . . .

  ‘‘Ms. Landry?’’ Ethan said.

  Amelia jumped from her naughty thoughts and blew out a gusty breath. ‘‘Well.’’ She managed to squeeze through two of the warriors and start mindlessly walking. ‘‘Well.’’

  Without really thinking, she headed straight across the great hall and out the door.

  ‘‘Who the bluidy hell is Jack Torrence?’’

  Ethan stared at the front door for a moment longer, and then glanced at Torloch. ‘‘Damned if I know. But she thinks he’s armed.’’

  ‘‘I dunna fancy that pasty look affixed to her face,’’ said Sorely. He took a step toward the door. ‘‘Mayhap I should go after her?’’

  Aiden grabbed him by the arm. ‘‘Nay, little lad. No doubt you’ve scared her with that jagged scar across your jaw.’’ He nodded and slapped Sorely on the back. ‘‘I’ll go.’’

  ‘‘None of you fools are going anywhere,’’ Ethan said. He scrubbed his chin, then shifted his belt. ‘‘Where’s Guthrie?’’

  ‘‘He went to see Widow Malcolm,’’ Rob said. ‘‘He willna be back until he’s eaten every crumb of her pound cake, no doubt.’’

  The men chuckled.

  ‘‘Stay here, ye ken?’’ Ethan said. ‘‘I’ll go find her.’’

  ‘‘Why you?’’ asked Gilchrist, frowning.

  Ethan shrugged. ‘‘I’ve had more speech with her than the lot of you.’’ He met each man’s stare. ‘‘Now that she’s seen you, I’ll try to coax her back inside.’’

  As Ethan left the great hall, five sets of grumbles and various curses followed him out. Not that he blamed a one of them. They’d not had the pleasure of having a lass about the keep for centuries. One that stayed, anyway.

  Sifting through the front doorway, Ethan stopped just outside on the gravel drive. As the midsummer-evening light shone a filtered, yellowish hue, even at such a late hour, he searched for the fetching bard. She hadn’t run away scared. More likely to consider things. She did quite a lot of that, he thought.

  Not seeing her out front, he started around the side of the keep, toward the loch. ’Twas there, at the bank, that he found her, facing the black water.

  Ethan stood and watched her for some time. Modern maids were indeed something unique to consider. He’d seen a few over time, those who’d wandered onto his land before the keep was restored, and those who’d purchased it in the years that followed.

  Not a one had stayed more than a fortnight.

  And, he noticed, not a one was nearly as intriguing as the one presently throwing rocks into his loch.

  He considered the reason she’d come. She’d said ’twas to write her story. Mayhap the quiet beauty of the Highlands, or the sweet scent of the clover, or the craggy ruggedness of his land, urged her to come and stay. Mayhap it helped her pen her stories. For him, the Munro, even in his enchanted state, ’twas his birthright. He needed the Highlands, and especially his own land, as much as he needed air to breathe.

  The lass was sitting now upon a big rock close to the shoreline. He briefly wondered what ran through her mind. Had she an inkling of the horrors he and his men were accused of? Probably not in detail, for even they didn’t know everything. It pained him now to ev
en think on it. But he’d placed a portion of those horrors in her dreams.

  A plop broke the quiet as the girl threw a stone into the water. She heaved a big, exaggerated sigh, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms about her ankles. After settling her chin atop those knees, she spoke.

  She continued to stare out across the loch. ‘‘You’re the Bluidy Munro.’’

  Ethan sat down on the ground beside her. ‘‘Aye.’’

  ‘‘I thought so.’’ She turned her head to look at him, now resting her ear against her knees. For several moments, she studied him with those unusual eyes. ‘‘You don’t seem so horrible to me.’’

  Relief washed over him, for whatever odd notion, and he gave a nod. ‘‘That you haven’t left the keep yet is a wonder in itself.’’

  ‘‘Why is that?’’

  Ethan shrugged. ‘‘Most run screaming in terror.’’

  One nicely shaped brow lifted. ‘‘Do you frighten them on purpose?’’

  A smile pulled at his mouth. ‘‘No more than what you experienced.’’

  She brushed her long, fair hair back, grinned, and tossed another stone into the loch. ‘‘I happen to like scary things. I write scary things.’’ She scowled at him, although Ethan thought it was in play. ‘‘And I don’t frighten easy.’’

  This time, he laughed. ‘‘Well, lass—’’

  ‘‘Amelia.’’

  For some reason, Ethan nearly choked on the name. ‘‘Amelia. I suppose you’ve proven yourself a mighty warrior, then.’’ He cocked his head and studied her in the waning light. ‘‘Why do you like to write scary things?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know. It fascinates me, I guess. You know, things that are unexplained, phenomenal? Too fantastic for the brain to wrap around?’’ A grin split her face. ‘‘Sort of like you.’’

  Ethan tried to imagine anyone’s innards— especially a brain—wrapping about any one part of his body. He couldn’t. ‘‘I see.’’ He didn’t really, but that she thought him fantastic, whatever that meant, was something to consider.

  ‘‘So you’re enchanted?’’ she asked.

  Ethan nodded. ‘‘I can’t think of anything else, save cursed, that would fit our state of being.’’ He reached over his shoulder and shifted his blade, which was poking him in the back. ‘‘We didn’t die, or so we all believe, and each eve during the gloaming, we gain substance, so we know we’re not ghosts. Otherwise, we sift about, flimsy as specters, drifting through walls and—’’

  ‘‘You do what?’’

  Ethan blinked. ‘‘We drift through walls.’’

  ‘‘No, the other thing.’’

  Ethan nodded. ‘‘Aye, we gain substance each eve at the gloaming hour. We cannot leave Munro land, but we do gain substance. We know not why, but ’tis true enough.’’

  ‘‘You can eat, drink? Touch?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Aye.’’

  With a long forefinger, she rubbed her chin. ‘‘Guthrie can see you, can’t he?’’

  Ethan considered. ‘‘Aye, old Guthrie can see us. Not all can, though. ’Tis why we’re forced to, er, play tricks, as you say, to find out who can and canna see. Who might sense our presence.’’ He met her gaze. ‘‘You’re quite receptive, by the by.’’

  ‘‘I’ll just add that to my résumé.’’ Amelia slapped at her neck. ‘‘What are these bugs eating me alive?’’

  ‘‘Midges. Ferocious no matter the century.’’ He inclined his head to the keep. ‘‘Much more so than those fools inside.’’

  Amelia clasped her hands about her ankles, her gaze not once leaving his. ‘‘I didn’t leave because I was scared.’’

  Ethan nodded. ‘‘ ’Tis obvious.’’

  ‘‘I was just processing. You know? Being receptive is a unique experience.’’

  He quite imagined so.

  ‘‘Actually, I think I might still be processing.’’

  This time, Ethan chuckled. ‘‘No doubt, lass.’’ He stood. ‘‘I’ll see you inside, and tomorrow, we’ll continue. ’’ He adjusted his sword. ‘‘Does that suit?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’ She rose, brushed off her backside, and stepped off the rock.

  Together, side by side, they started for the keep. As they walked, Ethan measured in his mind just how unusual their situation was—he, from the fourteenth century, she from the present, walking together. More than out of the ordinary, to be true. Being a big lad himself, he towered over Amelia— no matter that she was a tall woman. The top of her head still reached to only just below his shoulders. He considered the advantages of that height difference and slid his gaze downward. With little caution, the lass picked her way over the scattered rock and mounds of thistle dotting the meadow between the keep and the loch. Far from being a prissy sort, she carried herself with a confidence he would admire in anyone, warrior or maid. And she did it whilst garbed in the most intriguing, modern fashion. He wasn’t quite sure he’d ever get used to seeing women not clothed in bolts of linen. Those snug black trews she wore, now, he rather fancied those.

  As if you’ve a right to fancy anything, Munro . . .

  ‘‘Well, it’s late, so I guess I’ll be going now.’’

  Ethan snapped from his thoughts and looked down at Amelia. Those wide almond-shaped eyes flashed dark in the summer eve’s uncanny light. He stepped away from her and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘‘Aye. Get some rest, girl, and we’ll have speech in the morn.’’

  A throat cleared then. ‘‘What’s wrong with having a bit of speech now?’’

  Amelia’s swift intake of breath, not to mention an odd noise from deep in her throat that sounded much like a field mouse, made him notice Rob, who had just poked his big enchanted head right through the door. His brother flashed Amelia a grin—one Ethan would have liked to remove thusly and more than likely would. Later. He gave him a frown. ‘‘The lass was just headed off to her chambers.’’

  ‘‘I don’t mind saying hello to everyone,’’ Amelia said. ‘‘That way, I won’t be quite as nervous tomorrow. ’’ She heaved a big sigh. ‘‘I hope.’’

  Ethan studied her for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. ‘‘Verra well, then.’’ He inclined his head toward the door. ‘‘To the great hall, Amelia. Mayhap you can stomach the knowing of my kin after all.’’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘‘ ’Tis rumored we’re a bloodthirsty lot.’’

  Amelia shrugged. ‘‘Guess I’ll take my chances.’’ She grinned.

  ‘‘And she fights like a bluidy berserker,’’ Rob said, giving an enthusiastic nod. ‘‘Come in, then, lass, and meet the Munros.’’

  Rob’s head disappeared through the oak.

  Amelia visibly shivered. ‘‘Man. That is just freaky.’’ She eyed him with caution. ‘‘Inside?’’

  A feeling bunched up in his throat, an odd sort of mood that, until verra recently, he’d not experienced in quite some time. ’Twas laughter. Damn him, the lass made him laugh.

  He, Ethan Munro. The Bluidy Munro, for Christ’s sake.

  Still, he fought the sensation the girl easily caused within him. ’Twas best to show as little weakness as possible. And mirth was, indeed, a weakness. It stood for ease of friendship, trust—mayhap more. None of which he had to give.

  How matters would turn out was as much a mystery as Devina’s death.

  With a nod, he inclined his head once more to the door. ‘‘After you.’’

  Amelia gave him a bold inspection, those strange eyes assessing his as though she could see far deeper than what she let on. ‘‘I’m looking forward to a little more in-depth info about those crazy dreams.’’ She gave the door a push and grinned. ‘‘I’m starting to think there’s a heck of a lot more to Ethan Munro than even he knows.’’

  With that, she stepped into the great hall to face his kin.

  And with a gusty sigh, Ethan followed.

  The lass had no idea just how verra true her wise words rang.

  He only hoped she could withstand that t
ruth.

  Chapter 6

  Wow. Talk about a reality check. Or maybe an unreality check. Freaky. Honest-to-God Twilight Zone freaky.

  She loved it.

  Amelia considered all the experiences she’d had in her twenty-eight years of life. Quite a number of them, truth be told. There’d been several she could recall with extreme fondness—most of those involving her nutty siblings, along with her kooky friend ZuZu. Boy, they’d all gotten into so much trouble as kids. Funny trouble. The kind that made you enjoy remembering and retelling the core of the trouble to anyone who’d listen. Firecrackers-in-the-trash-can-at-school kind of funny trouble.

  Then there were those certain extraordinary experiences you preferred to keep solely to yourself, unwilling to share the moment with anyone. Like the time Billy Morgan had kissed her on the Ferris wheel at the fall fair when she was twelve (Billy had a lisp and somehow, it had worked for her). Or the time her granny had sent her down to the river to cast a net for shrimp early one morning, and a dolphin and her baby swam right up to the floating dock and surfaced, and they’d all stared at one another, shared a few surreal moments in time. The baby had played a bit, diving all around its mama and then popping up to see if Amelia had noticed. She’d wanted to reach out and touch that cute little baby, with its slick, gray skin, so badly, but she hadn’t. She’d just sat there in her cutoff jeans and tank top, feet dangling in the water, watching in total awe. Amelia had been fourteen that summer. What a slice of magic that’d been, those dolphins. And she’d never told a soul about it. Not even ZuZu.

  This experience, Amelia decided, was definitely being added to that particular list of keep-to-your-greedy -self, surreal experiences. Had she a photo of it, she’d hide it beneath a secret panel in her dresser, where she’d take it out at least once a day to look at it, then put it back so no one else could see.

  Never would she forget the midsummer night in the Scottish Highlands, where she’d entered a fourteenth-century castle and encountered five of the biggest, burliest, surliest, sexiest guys she’d ever seen—not including the biggest and surliest of the bunch, who’d followed her inside. Six men in all. They encircled her, making her feel slightly puny, but not really. She’d seen them before—first, in her dreams, then in what she thought was real life.