by Cindy Miles
Sorely wiped his brow. ‘‘Why do you think the spirits are interested in Amelia, Ethan? Why no’ just contact us?’’
‘‘Aye,’’ said Gil. ‘‘We’ve been here plenty long for the ghosties to have a word wi’ us.’’
Ethan shook his head. ‘‘I vow, I don’t know. Mayhap ’tis simply that Amelia is mortal and can physically help?’’
Torloch rubbed his chin. ‘‘Guthrie is mortal.’’
‘‘Aye,’’ said Rob. ‘‘But he’s no’ experienced any other beings, save us.’’
Ethan watched as Amelia turned, threw up a hand and waved, and then disappeared through the mist into the dense copse of pine, elm, and rowan, her hair swinging off the back of her head like a horse’s tail. Ethan waved in return. ‘‘I dunna ken myself, Rob,’’ he said. ‘‘But if anyone is brave—and daft— enough to help us, ’tis Amelia.’’
Every man said his aye. Ethan knew they’d already grown fond of the lass, and how could they not have? But their fondness was passing different than his.
Amelia, to him, had become necessary.
Never before had a woman seized his thoughts as she, and by Christ, even whence he was in slumber, he dreamed of her. Fetching, aye. She was that, indeed. Engaging in conversation, true of heart, brutally honest—all traits he admired in anyone, but to find them all bound into the form of the most captivating of women? And by the sword, she made him laugh. He couldna recall when the last time his tears had leaked from laughter. A bluidy miracle, Amelia Landry.
‘‘Look ye, lads, at our laird’s face,’’ said Aiden. ‘‘What think you?’’
‘‘Besotted,’’ said Torloch.
‘‘Aye,’’ Sorely, Rob, and Gilchrist all agreed at once. ‘‘Most definitely besotted.’’
Ethan stepped away from the rampart’s wall and glared at each of his kin. ‘‘I am no’ besotted.’’
‘‘No? Are you the verra same lad who at any moment plans to go chasing the lass into the wood to pick flowers?’’ said Sorely. ‘‘That seems verra besotted to me.’’
‘‘No one asked you, fool. Besides. I wasna going to pick bluidy flowers,’’ said Ethan. He stopped and rubbed his chin. He gave his best gnarly smile. ‘‘A round with the blades with you dolts would better suit this fine morn instead of a womanly turn through the forest, methinks.’’ He met each man’s eye. ‘‘What say you?’’
That indeed brought grins to the warriors’ faces, and they each reached for their sword.
Of course, ’twas a rather hefty tale on Ethan’s part. He’d much rather take said womanly stroll through the wood with Amelia than knock swords with his foul-mouthed kinsmen.
Not that he’d ever admit the like.
He’d forgo the stroll with Amelia. He’d go tomorrow. Mayhap he’d go every day, henceforth.
Besides, he thought, unsheathing his broadsword, a bit of frustration taken out on his irritating family would suit him just fine. Mayhap, even, ’twould settle his innards.
He had a second date with Amelia to prepare for, after all.
With his left hand, he grabbed his sword, once again grateful that, although enchanted and ghostlike to the mortal world, he moved like flesh and blood with his like-enchanted kinsmen.
He hoped he could manage not losing a limb before the morn was over.
Holding the big blade with both hands now, he pointed it at his cousin. ‘‘You first, little lad,’’ Ethan said to Aiden.
Aiden grinned and began to move. ‘‘My pleasure.’’
Amelia stretched out the muscles in her back, rubbed her eyes, and glanced at her watch: 6:20 p.m. Dragging the pointer to the File tab, she clicked it, then Save, and then closed her laptop. She smiled. Not a bad day’s work for someone who’d just found her groove.
One thing was for sure, though. Once she started really getting into the writing, she was definitely going to have to find a really great spot outside to work. While her bedroom was spacious and quite cool, she couldn’t work clammed up in a windowless room. She wanted the Highlands, the outdoors— maybe somewhere with a nice view of the loch. Definitely a place where she could sniff that clover . . .
Reaching down, she gave Jack a quick pat, then moved to the clothes chest and opened the lid.
What on earth to wear on a second date with Ethan?
Amelia dug. Dug like a teenager going out on Friday night. The Bram Stoker T found its way into her hands, and she smiled. ‘‘Not tonight, Bram ole boy, but definitely tomorrow.’’
Jeans? Capris? Another sundress? Finally, her fingers brushed across something soft and silky, and she grabbed, pulling up a dark blue rayon sundress with tiny white flowers. Baby-doll cut, just to her knees, with an empire waist. Another ZuZu special. Perfect.
Besides, she thought, laying the dress across her bed to ready it for a good wrinkle releasing. It wasn’t every day she had a date with a handsome warlord. Why not look her best?
After picking out a pair of dark blue wedgie heels, Amelia hurried through a shower, the whole getting-ready routine girls go through, including leg shaving, lotioning, hair drying, makeup application, teeth brushing, and, once finished, applied a little vanilla-sugar -flavored lip gloss (Thanks, ZuZu!), a single squirt of perfume, and all without the first interruption by a ghost—friendly or unfriendly.
She was slightly disappointed about the no-ghost thing, once she thought about it. Sexy-fun-medieval guy on one hand, friendly ghost on the other. Hmmm. Definitely Ethan.
Once again grabbing the iPod, Amelia hurried from the room. Twilight grew near, and she didn’t want to waste one single second of it.
Taking off down the corridor, Amelia scooted around corners as fast as she could without tripping, and finally, blessedly, to the stairway leading to the great hall. She’d made it nearly to the bottom when the door flew open.
Ethan stepped inside, dropped a stack of plaids, and made his very determined, persistent way toward her.
Chapter 15
Amelia blinked, stared at Ethan’s face, and continued down the stairs. He moved toward her with long strides, eyes locked on hers, as if he’d known the exact spot she’d be in once he’d walked through the great hall door. She could have been anywhere. But as soon as he’d entered the castle, he’d come directly toward her. He had the look of a man with an intention—of what exactly, Amelia wasn’t sure. At present, he looked as though he’d just plow her over. With brows pulled into a slight frown, mouth drawn tight, and eyes somewhat narrowed, he almost seemed angry. No, not angry . . .
Where on earth had he gotten that shiner? And what was that stack of plaid material for?
She held her ground, smiled, even though she was pretty sure it looked dopey, and kept right on walking. He grew closer, closer still, and Amelia stopped and fought the urge to step out of his way. ‘‘Ethan, what’s—’’
Ethan Munro walked right up to her, and with no hesitation, no fumbling—nothing but sheer resolve, took Amelia’s face between his big hands, tilted her head back and just to the side, then took the briefest of moments to linger, stare into her eyes before he lowered his head and settled his mouth over hers.
The world stopped all around her.
Ethan’s mouth was gentle as he situated it over hers, and Amelia could feel the restraint he used with his fingers, holding her head, her jaw fiercely, as if using that bit of pressure would keep him from consuming her in one big breath.
She sincerely hoped it didn’t.
Then Ethan let out a long sigh against her mouth, slid his thumbs along her jaw, and tugged, urging her to open, and she did. Just the sensation of the calluses on both hands chafing the skin of her face made her shudder. Her lips trembled against his, and when he tasted her with a slow, gentle swipe of his tongue, Amelia sighed at the sensations that crashed over her, and she reached with her free hand and brushed her fingers over his stubbled cheek.
As if her acceptance of his kiss set off a switch inside him, a low growl sounded from deep in Ethan’s throat, a
nd his kiss deepened. No longer gentle, or slow, it was the kiss of a desperate man, one who’d found something he’d been searching for and he was not letting go. Amelia felt it with every fiber within her, by the hunger of his mouth, his tongue searching hers.
Without warning, his hand found the iPod, pried it from Amelia’s fingers, and tucked it somewhere on his belt. She hardly cared. He could have thrown it into the hearth for all it mattered.
As long as he did not stop kissing her.
The hand that had released her of the iPod found its way to the small of her back, and the other kept a firm grasp on the back of her neck. Ethan pulled her closer, and Amelia used both free hands to wind her fingers through his damp hair. He groaned against her mouth, and excitement fluttered through her as they both satisfied a hunger, a desire so strong that it left Amelia’s knees weakened, her heart hammering out of control.
Ethan’s hand, the one at the small of her back, slowly and with just the right amount of pressure, caressed the swell of her bottom, and God help her, Amelia groaned and leaned in to him . . .
Then, all at once, Ethan stopped, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pushed her backward. Both gasped for air and stared.
‘‘What’s the matter?’’ Amelia asked, her breathing sounding very much like that of a teenager who’d been making out for far too long in the back of someone’s car.
Not that she’d ever done that before. Okay, maybe just once.
Ethan only stared at her, his gaze moving over her face, settling on her mouth, then down her body and back up again. Desire flashed in those silvery depths, and it made Amelia’s insides quiver, made her skin warm.
Made her want his mouth back against hers.
‘‘Why’d you stop?’’ she asked. She’d be mortified at herself later. For now, dangit, she wanted to know why.
Ethan dropped his hands and backed away from her a bit more. ‘‘Because, Amelia,’’ he said, his breath harsh, his accent much stronger, deeper than usual, ‘‘your rule, aye? ’Twas either cease, or take you right here.’’ He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and studied her for several seconds. ‘‘Christ, woman,’’ he muttered, then put his hands on his hips, tilted his head back, and stared at the rafters. ‘‘Bleeding Christ.’’
And then he said a harsh, one-worder. It sounded like Gaelic. Probably a curse, she imagined.
She had to firmly agree.
Lifting a hand, she fingered the skin by her mouth, made tender by the abrasion of Ethan’s stubbled cheeks.
A shiver ran through her.
When she looked up, Ethan’s stare was fixed on her again. She did indeed have rules, damn every one of them, but she’d sworn by them and for now, raging hormones or not, she’d stick to them. Better to just move along, she figured.
For now, anyway.
‘‘What happened to your eye?’’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘‘Naught but a friendly tussle with Aiden.’’
Amelia quirked a brow. ‘‘I didn’t know you could get injured while enchanted. Not that I know many enchanted persons.’’
‘‘Only betwixt us Munros—’’
A deep, loud, rowdy rumble of words Amelia didn’t understand sounded from just outside the great hall, interrupting Ethan’s sentence. She recognized the voice, she thought. ‘‘Is that Aiden?’’
‘‘Aye, ’tis.’’ He turned and walked toward the door, then bent down and picked up the stack of plaid cloth he’d tossed down on his way in.
Then it dawned on her.
Ethan was indeed a devil. And he probably deserved that big black shiner he sported.
Amelia smothered a snort. ‘‘Are those guys out there naked?’’
Ethan grinned over his shoulder. ‘‘Naked and mad.’’
Amelia laughed. ‘‘You want me to open the door?’’ She imagined five big nekkid medieval trick-or-treaters. ‘‘Seriously. I’ll do it.’’
‘‘Nay, you willna,’’ he said, and then stared hard at her. ‘‘You’re more fetchin’ than you were yestereve, methinks.’’ With a grin, he opened the door, threw out the plaids, and then slammed the door shut.
More shouts—probably Gaelic curses, of which she’d love to learn a few—and then after a few minutes of quieter grumbles, Aiden’s distinct booming voice shouted once more. ‘‘Open the bluidy door, cousin!’’
Ethan did, and his five kinsmen piled inside, their plaids barely in place as they cinched, brooched, and belted. All carried their swords in their hands, and they leaned them against the wall.
Sorely was still barefoot.
‘‘Damn you, Ethan,’’ Gilchrist said. ‘‘You didna have to take our clothes.’’
Aiden, who sported a similar black eye as his cousin and a cut on his cheekbone to go with it, walked past Ethan and straight to Amelia. He looked her over, head to foot. ‘‘You dunna look overwrought. ’’
Amelia smiled. ‘‘And why would I?’’
Aiden’s eyes, a silvery blue, sparked mischief. ‘‘I know my cousin.’’ He cocked his head, steadfast in his perception. ‘‘Damn lucky horse’s arse, he is. Damn lucky.’’
‘‘Come, Amelia,’’ said Ethan, at her elbow and tugging. ‘‘I’ve a place to show you and we’ve no’ much time.’’
Amelia smiled and waved at Aiden. ‘‘See ya later.’’
Aiden grunted.
‘‘Teach me some of those naughty Gaelic words later, okay?’’ No telling when she could use them.
Aiden threw back his head and laughed, and then hollered at his kin. ‘‘Come, lads, now that we’re all properly clothed, and let us see what Guthrie has cooked for us this eve.’’ He glanced around. ‘‘Who has the bluidy iPod?"
Ethan slipped it from his belt and tossed it to Aiden, who caught it with ease.
Amelia laughed, and then as she hurried with the determined Highlander, reveled in the feel of her hand engulfed in Ethan’s big, rough one. He pulled her right outside and slammed the door. Overhead, she noticed the swirling clouds of dark purples were mixed with those of gray. A storm approached. Oh, boy, how she loved a good storm, although she wasn’t too sure she wanted to stand out in one.
‘‘Who’s going to be our guard tonight?’’ she asked.
‘‘No guard,’’ he answered, and continued in the same direction that she’d taken into the forest earlier that morning.
‘‘I’m surprised,’’ she said. ‘‘Especially after you left them nekkid in the loch.’’
Slowing his pace somewhat, he glanced down at her. ‘‘They trust you more than they trust me.’’
‘‘Do they know I’m almost thirty and have been celibate for over a year?’’
Ethan laughed. ‘‘Do you know I’m nigh unto seven centuries old and celibate?’’
Amelia whistled low as they slowed even more. ‘‘Yikes. You got me there, laird.’’
Ethan grunted.
Amelia glanced over her shoulder at the keep, and the view made her stop in her tracks. The tall, gray ominous tower house reached toward the dramatic swirl of a thunderhead. Everything had turned that eerie dimness, void of color except the purple heather in the meadow. The loch appeared to be ink instead of water. ‘‘Wow. Look at that.’’
Ethan did, and he paused.
Amelia wasn’t quite sure she’d seen anything so beautiful. ‘‘It’s breathtaking.’’
‘‘Aye, impossibly so.’’
She turned to find Ethan staring dead at her.
Quite a bit more breathtaking, she thought, than any scenery she could recall. Their shared kiss not a handful of moments before rushed back, made her shiver, and by the craved look in Ethan’s eyes, he just might be remembering, too. In many a novel, she’d read of men looking at women with such deep desire and hunger, they all but turned to mush. Amelia couldn’t quite determine what mush was, but she indeed did now know what that feeling must be like, because that’s exactly how Ethan was looking at her.
Starved.
She tilted her head back and gav
e a smile that probably came off as weak. ‘‘Are you taking me deep into the forest to make out with me?’’
With one of those big, calloused hands, Ethan used the pad of his thumb and ran it lightly over her lips. ‘‘If that means kiss you senseless, then aye. I am.’’
Breathe? Was she supposed to be breathing? Good Lord, how could a primal man, a warrior who hacked away at his enemy’s very necessary body parts, walked around and tore meat from bones with his teeth, dressed in one giant piece of cloth (what was under there, anyway?), continuously carried, and probably slept with, a sword nearly as tall as she, be so gentle and passionate? Where’d he learn to kiss like that, anyway?
The thought alone made her tremble.
Linking his fingers through hers, Ethan gave a tug. ‘‘Come, lass, so we can find shelter before the rain begins.’’
As they began walking again, Amelia sighed. ‘‘I think next time—’’
‘‘Tomorrow.’’
She smiled. ‘‘Yes, tomorrow, I’ll find some rubber boots to wear. These wedgies aren’t exactly made for hill walking.’’
Ethan stroked her hand with his thumb. ‘‘That will be quite a sight whilst you wear a gown.’’
‘‘I’ll reserve the gowns for when we, I don’t know, dine in.’’ She glanced at their interlocked hands. Big veins fanned out over the back of Ethan’s hand and roped up his forearm, over his bicep, and disappeared beneath the silver band he wore. With her free hand, she traced the vein closest to his wrist, pushed on it with her fingertip a few times, and he glanced down.
‘‘What are you about, lass?’’
‘‘You must swing that big sword around a lot,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ve got spongy veins.’’
He nodded. ‘‘ ’Tis a fine sport, swordplay. I’ll teach it to you, mayhap starting tomorrow.’’
‘‘Sounds good to me.’’ They walked into the forest, a canopy of pines and various other trees native to Scotland that she’d ask Ethan about later. Earlier, the trees had made it shady, blocking the sun’s view. Now it was rather dark and shadowy. Still, it was breathtaking, and the heavy scent of pine and clover filled the cool air.
