by Cindy Miles
He looked at her, shook his head, and then chuckled. ‘‘I vow, woman,’’ he said. ‘‘You leave me truly bewildered.’’
‘‘Good. That’s my aim in life.’’ She smiled, and then looked at him hard. ‘‘You really are amazing, Ethan Arimus Munro. It’s not just any ole fourteenth-century guy who could manage to come along and sweep me off my feet.’’
First he looked at her feet and then met her stare, and it penetrated her straight to the bone. Because it was midsummer, the light never completely faded, and the slice of moon hanging just over the loch made it just a bit brighter. She noticed the small sun lines, or laugh lines, that fanned out from his eyes, and the tinier lines in his lips. The muscle in his jaw, which was forever flinching, flinched now.
Ethan drew a deep breath. ‘‘I fear verra little, Amelia. ’’ His profound gaze pinned her to the spot. ‘‘But I fear you.’’ He glanced away. ‘‘So much, it chokes me.’’
A knot tightened in Amelia’s stomach, and her mouth went dry. ‘‘I’m not all that scary, am I?’’ she asked, knowing the smile she pasted on her face looked dopey.
Several seconds passed without Ethan saying a word. He just stared straight ahead, as if something beyond the loch’s shoreline interested him, with both knees pulled up now and both forearms resting atop them. That long dark hair draped over his arms, down his back, and the bands at his biceps pulled tight against the flexed muscles they encircled. Amelia thought he’d never look at her again. Then suddenly, he did.
Again, he stared at her, long and hard, as though whatever it was he wanted to say sat just there, on the tip of his tongue, desperate to form words but relentless to stay put.
‘‘I fear the emptiness I’ll feel, here’’—he passed his hand over his heart—‘‘when you take your leave.’’
Amelia blinked, and her smile felt even weaker than before. ‘‘I’m not going anywhere—’’
‘‘Aye, lass, you are,’’ Ethan interrupted. ‘‘Your life is elsewhere, Amelia. Your family, your home—’tis far from this place.’’ His stare bore into hers. ‘‘You will leave. You’ve no choice.’’
The air left Amelia’s lungs in a slow whoosh as reality smacked her upside the head. God, he was right. Already, she’d been gone a month. She had eight weeks before her book was due. Eight weeks before she boarded another jet and flew back home to her family, her life, her job, her little cottage on the beach.
The one she lived in alone.
How was she supposed to know she’d meet and fall head over heels for a seven-hundred-year-old warrior? Didn’t see that one coming, did ya, big shot?
Amelia looked at Ethan. Stoic, he hid whatever thoughts of emptiness he feared, for his face revealed nothing. It only held that tense expression.
What was she doing? Spending every single day with a guy, necking with him for one hour of each day, and . . .
. . . growing closer to him by the second.
God, she was an idiot.
‘‘Amelia, I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I didna mean to cause such a troubled look upon your lovely face.’’ He ducked his head and peered at her. ‘‘Truly, I should have remained silent.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘We medievals are a sensitive lot, you know.’’
Amelia took that very moment to lighten the mood. Why spend the rest of her time with Ethan sulking? They had eight weeks together, and by God, she’d not waste it pouting. She gave a big grin, one that felt more real this time. ‘‘Sensitive? You hack people’s heads off,’’ she said, pulling her forefinger across her throat in a cutting-off motion.
Ethan shrugged. ‘‘Mayhap a few.’’
They stared at each other, unspoken words passing through the air. They’d stay there, those words, floating around on a gentle Highland breeze, there, but not aloud. For now she wanted to enjoy Ethan’s company for as long as possible. ‘‘Wanna lie here and watch the stars for a little while?’’ she said, lying back and patting the spot beside her. ‘‘Come on.’’
Ethan glanced skyward. ‘‘ ’Tis a rather weak display this time of eve,’’ he said. ‘‘But far be it from me to play the fool and no’ lie beside a fetchin’ lass in the heather when invited.’’ He stretched out by her, keeping enough distance apart so he didn’t slip through her, linked his fingers together and placed them behind his head. He crossed his booted feet at the ankle and sighed.
Both were silent for a moment.
‘‘Good thing you didna wear a gown this eve.’’
A second of silence; then Amelia burst into laughter. Ethan started to chuckle, but then joined her in a full-fledged laughing fit.
But deep within her heart, Amelia ached, for she knew that it would all come to an end far sooner than she’d like. Only later would she realize that she’d passed the solitary chance to tell Ethan Munro her innermost thoughts.
That she loved him.
Chapter 21
Two weeks went by before another ghost made contact.
Amelia had wondered if it would even happen again.
Lying on her belly, stretched out on her bed, she worked on her outline with pen and paper. The story was proving to be a tad bit difficult.
The clock on the bedside table read 11:00 p.m. in neon green numbers. Laying aside her pad and paper, Amelia stretched, bringing one knee up and turning at the waist. Her back cracked, she repeated the opposite side, and then she rolled off the bed, ready to go downstairs to get a drink before sleep.
As soon as her feet hit the floor, she froze.
And immediately knew she no longer stood in the room alone.
Scanning the chamber, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Open-beamed rafters overhead, the clothes chest, her desk, the bedside table, a corner lamp, and the bathroom. Nothing seemed out of place. It was more of a feeling than anything else. And that feeling grew stronger.
‘‘Hello?’’ she said in a whisper. She knew Ethan would be on the other side of her door, sitting against the wall, guarding. He did so every night. And if he heard her making a ruckus, he’d pop in and investigate.
And possibly scare off the spirit.
Amelia waited, breath held.
Then the slightest of breezes brushed her neck, lifted a hank of her hair, and a whisper slipped into her ear.
‘‘Break the sspell . . .’’
Amelia heaved a sigh. ‘‘You’ve already told me that,’’ she whispered. ‘‘How do I break the spell?’’
‘‘They must go back . . .’’
Great, Amelia thought, a ghost with dementia.
Looking around the room and still seeing nothing, not a wisp of mist, nor a face, she took a deep breath and blew it back out slowly. ‘‘Tell me how to break the spell. Please?’’
Silence—not a whisper, not a hair lifting. Nothing.
‘‘Please?’’ she said a little louder.
‘‘Youuu . . .’’
What did that mean? You? Only the word had stretched out.
‘‘Follow . . .’’
Amelia’s eyes darted around. Follow? How the heck could she follow if she didn’t see anything?
‘‘Wood . . ."
She smiled. After dark, and the good ghost wanted her to go traipsing in the woods? Fantastic. Slipping on her sneakers, she pulled her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her mini flashlight and tucked it into her yoga pants, and moved to the door.
As soon as she opened it, Ethan stood. Before he could say a word, though, Amelia placed a finger over her lips, he nodded, and then she motioned for him to follow. Silently, he fell in behind her and they eased down the passageway.
Once in the great hall, Ethan leaned close to Amelia’s ear. ‘‘Where are we going?’’
Even at a precarious time such as being led through a fourteenth-century castle by a whispering specter, hearing Ethan’s deep, rich voice, tinged with that incredible, medieval Scottish brogue, made Amelia shiver. She must have actually done it, the shiver, and Ethan must have noticed, because he gave a soft chuckle—which
was just as rich as his voice.
‘‘To the wood,’’ she said. ‘‘So says the good ghost.’’
‘‘Why?’’ he asked, still whispering.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ she replied. ‘‘Hush, and just follow, before you scare it off.’’
They walked in silence thereafter, and Amelia noticed only her feet made a soft swooshing noise in the grass. Ethan didn’t make a sound at all.
A thought struck Amelia, and she did everything in her power not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it. But Ethan, ever so conscious of her every move, noticed. They’d just passed the old yew tree in the meadow when he spoke.
‘‘What’s so funny, lass?’’ he asked.
Amelia shook her head. ‘‘It’s just so bizarre. Here I am, following an unseen specter’s voice, accompanied by a seven-hundred-year-old enchanted laird.’’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘‘To me, it’s pretty darn hilarious.’’
‘‘Hurry, youuu . . .’’
Again, Amelia shushed Ethan and they did hurry. Drawing close to the dark wood line, Amelia slowed. ‘‘Man, it’s dark in there,’’ she said. She clicked on her mini flashlight and stared at the tiny, narrow stream of light. She shook her head and peered into the shadows. ‘‘I can’t see a thing.’’
‘‘Alone . . .’’
Amelia froze.
‘‘Without him. By youuu . . .’’
‘‘What is it?’’ Ethan said, his face drawn tight, brows furrowed. ‘‘I dunna like that look on your face, lass.’’
She stared up at him. ‘‘It’s telling me to go into the woods alone. Without you.’’
Ethan had no hesitation. ‘‘Nay.’’
‘‘But, Ethan—’’
‘‘Nay, Amelia,’’ he said, and not in a whisper. ‘‘Good spirit, bad spirit, it doesna matter to me. You’ve already been placed in danger once. You could have fallen to your death, or do you no’ recall that?’’ He leaned forward, his voice edged and low. ‘‘Nay.’’
Amelia glanced at the shadowy forest. ‘‘I guess you’re right.’’ She looked back at him. ‘‘But I’ve got to go in there at some point, Ethan. A ghost from the past is trying to tell me something, and I can only assume it has something to do with you.’’ She shoved her hands into her warm-up jacket pockets. ‘‘Maybe even the death of your wife, or your enchantment. So you better believe I’m going to find out what’s in there.’’ She inclined her head. ‘‘I’ll have a bigger flashlight ready next time.’’
A slight curve touched Ethan’s sexy mouth. ‘‘Quite a fierce lass, aye?’’
Amelia feigned a scowl. ‘‘Double aye.’’
They turned and walked back to the keep, the Highland moon throwing a silvery light across the misty ground.
‘‘In the morn we’ll go to the wood. Together.’’
Amelia was quite satisfied with that. For now.
The next morn Ethan was actually surprised to find Amelia still in her chamber. With that hardheaded look about her from the eve before, he’d thought she would have tried to sneak out.
He’d been ready for her, too.
Rather, his kin had.
One could never be too careful when dealing with a determined twenty-first-century lass.
The chamber door opened, Jack scooted out first, followed by Amelia. Ethan stared in appreciation.
How could he no’?
In truth, he’d done his best to keep his distance from the lass. They’d continued their trysts each eve during the gloaming hour, but he’d not allowed himself the dangerous pleasure he’d had that one night, when he’d lain atop her, felt every soft curve beneath him, and had nearly taken far too much from her. He’d wanted her so fiercely that night; it pained him still to think on it.
Which he did oft enough.
He’d almost done another foolish thing that night, as well. By the blood of Christ, he’d nearly told her the depth of his feelings for her. He hadn’t, though. Somehow the words had stayed firmly within his stupid self.
And that’s where they’d stay.
Although each time he looked at her, like he did thusly, he found his tongue wanted to spew forth all manner of soft and mushy words. The sort of words that, if heard by his kin, he’d be tormented mercilessly for the rest of his bluidy days.
Instead, they’d spent their solitary hour together, with Amelia sharing the twenty-first century with him, and he the fourteenth with her. He finally had his turn at the iPod, and by the saints, ’twas a wondrous thing, indeed. The music sounded clear, soft at times, loud at others, and seemingly right in his head. How his mother would have loved it.
Aye, they kissed. He’d cut his own stupid head off before giving that luxury up. ’Twas torture, though, for each time he tasted, he wanted more. But he always ended it before the ending of it could not be helped. He’d look upon her, like he presently did, more likely than not with the same daft look on his face.
By Christ’s saints, she was lovely.
Garbed in a gown with two separate parts—a top and bottom—the bottom, which reached to her calves, was the same shade of green as her eyes. The top was white, sleeveless, and had small buttons from the neck to the waist.
Just then, Amelia lifted her arms above her head and pulled her hair into that adorable floppy ball, and the hem of her top rose, exposing her flat stomach, and, dear God, her navel. Tanned skin, taut with womanly muscles, it all but made his mouth go dry . . .
‘‘Ogling?’’
He blinked, for indeed he had been ogling, and enjoying every moment of it, and smiled. ‘‘For a certainty. Are you ready?’’
She reached down, patted Jack on the head, and nodded. ‘‘Let’s go.’’
Halfway across the meadow, she glanced up at him. ‘‘Did you know William Wallace?’’
Ethan nodded. ‘‘Indeed. A big lad, taller than me, he was. Powerfully fierce about his homeland.’’ He looked down, and her mouth was slightly ajar.
‘‘You knew him?’’
Ethan nodded. ‘‘Of course. No’ many a healthy lad didna back then. ’Twas a driven man, that one, and had a knack for raisin’ spirits during battle.’’ He nodded. ‘‘A fine leader, Wallace. No’ a finer one since him, by the by. He gave that bleedin’ murderer Edward a run, for a certainty.’’
Amelia stopped in her tracks. ‘‘Wait. You fought with William Wallace?’’
Ethan blinked. ‘‘Aye. We all did.’’
‘‘Wow.’’ She winced. ‘‘Do you know what happened to him?’’
Ethan nodded and they began to walk once more. ‘‘Aye, Guthrie told us. Captured and turned over to English soldiers by a Scottish knight just a pair of years after our enchantment. Tragic death, his.’’ He nodded. ‘‘A damn good man.’’
‘‘Unbelievable,’’ Amelia said in a hushed voice.
Ethan guessed it truly was.
They walked on in comfortable silence and entered the wood. For no reason at all, they headed down the path to the old yew. Once the old gnarled tree came in sight, they stood before it and stared.
Ethan inclined his head. ‘‘Did the ghostie tell you to come here?’’
‘‘No,’’ she said, and rubbed her fingers over the bark. ‘‘But I feel drawn to it somehow. It fascinates me.’’
Ethan knew the feeling well.
‘‘You know,’’ she said, looking at him. ‘‘Some people who are in lo—er—are really crazy about each other carve their names into the bark of a tree.’’ She used her finger against the aged wood. ‘‘Sometimes just initials, for instance, EAM plus AFL. Other times’’—she grinned—‘‘the whole name, like, John loves Lucy, or John and Lucy forever.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘An American custom, I think.’’
He moved closer. ‘‘And if our names were forever engraved in such a tradition’’—his sexy mouth lifted into a sexier grin—‘‘what would it say?’’
Amelia’s eyes glazed over, as if in deep thought. Then she smiled. ‘‘Ethan and Amelia. By the by
.’’
He gave a wistful smile. ‘‘Indeed.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘Er, do you hear anything else this morn, Amelia? No whisperings at all?’’
She cocked her ear to the wind, listened, then shook her head. ‘‘Nope. Not a thing. I’m starting to think these specters are ornery and slight control freaks.’’
He couldn’t be too sure what a control freak was, but he got the gist of it.
They’d contact Amelia when good and ready.
‘‘Come on,’’ she said. ‘‘Tae kwon do first, then more research for the book.’’
And with that, they left the wood, leaving the ghosties and whispering yews behind.
At least, until they decided to show themselves again.
Chapter 22
"What is all this, lass?" Amelia looked at Torloch and grinned. "This is my time line.’’ She hollered over her shoulder. ‘‘You guys come here for a second. I need your help.’’
Ethan leaned a hip against what Amelia liked to refer to as the makeshift Mission Control office. Guthrie had helped her set it up the day before, and it was perfect. Long and wide, it was made of smooth wood and had plenty of room for her roll of white art paper, sticky notes, and scene cards. He leaned over and looked hard at her scribblings.
‘‘Lass, we’ve only learned modern English two scores ago,’’ Ethan said.
‘‘Aye, and whilst we are fast-learning lads, Guthrie was our teacher,’’ said Sorely, who braced himself with both hands and peered at the table’s contents. ‘‘We dunno know what half of this means.’’
Amelia chuckled. ‘‘That’s okay. I really just want to go over the time line of events and then do a little filling in. There are a number of holes here.’’
The men grunted.
Picking up her pack of multicolored Sharpies, Amelia uncapped a red and started at one end of the table. ‘‘Okay. Here’’—she made an asterisk—‘‘is the proposal for the marriage between you, Ethan, and Devina of Clan MacEwan."
Ethan watched in silence.
Amelia drew a small line and made another asterisk. ‘‘Here’s the wedding day, and here’’—she drew one more—‘‘is the day after. Now, Ethan, you were sleeping and awoke to the hollering of Daegus MacEwan, right?’’
