Spellbound

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “What are we doing?” she whispered, well aware of how insane this was. Jane didn’t know this man. It might feel like she did, but logic told her he was a stranger.

  What does it matter? she thought. It’s not like I have time to waste by taking things slow.

  “If ya have to ask, I didn’t do it right.” Iain kissed her a second time, pressing harder. His lips parted, and the warm probe of his tongue poked beyond the boundary of her mouth. As he moved against her, slow and deliberate, she swore she heard the sound of bagpipes and felt the wind. Jane closed her eyes, fighting to stay in the moment, to not fall into another hallucination.

  The brush of his fingers glided down her cheek and neck. Tingling erupted where he touched, teasing her with the raw desire it left in its wake. She’d ached for human contact. It had been so very long since she’d been held. Seeing her stepbrother had made the past rush forward, reminding her of what it had been like to be bedbound. This might be her last chance to be with a man before the illness came back.

  I can’t waste time.

  I don’t have the time to waste.

  * * *

  Iain wasn’t sure what possessed him take Jane home with him, or why he chose to sneak her up to his bedroom. A hospital would have made sense…if he was human. Perhaps it was selfishness. His magick recognized her, whispering that he needed to protect her. As he’d held her, her body flopping in his arms, he hadn’t wanted to let her go. Besides, doctors would wonder why he was carrying around an unconscious townswoman.

  Or was it he was just attracted to her and making up excuses?

  As she gave a soft moan and caressed up his arms, he was pretty sure he had his answer. This woman made him horny as hell. His cock lifted with a rock-hard response. He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so frenzied, so desperate to end the ache in his body. He tugged at her clothes. His fingertips tingled, his powers begging him to magickally melt the barrier to explore the soft flesh underneath.

  Jane pulled him closer as she led him to the bed. Her mouth stayed on his. She lifted his kilt, touching the backs of his thighs and under curve of his ass.

  “Nae!”

  The sound of his ma’s voice hit his libido like a bucket of ice water. He automatically let go of Jane and pulled away from her. Turning to the door, he was surprised to see his ma out of her wheelchair. She appeared frail and swayed on her feet, but there was nothing weak about her expression. She glared at Jane.

  “Get away from my son, death’s reipseach. I know what ya are,” Margareta MacGregor shouted in warning as she pointed a wobbly finger at Jane. “Thalla’s cagainn bruis. Thalla’s cagainn bruis! I will protect my house from your master. Ya cannot have my son!”

  “Ma,” Iain said, part in surprise, part in warning and part in worry. “What are ya doing? Get out of here.”

  His ma began yelling at him in a long string of Gaelic, chiding him for bringing the woman home, cursing the woman and threatening to cast a spell on her.

  “Ya are in no condition to do such a thing,” he told her. His ma could barely manage to wield her fingers to pick up a cup, let alone summon the power it would take to throw Jane to the trolls.

  “I’ll go,” Jane said, pushing past him. She paused, unable to leave while his ma blocked the door.

  “Jane, I’m sorry, she’s not well. She—” Iain tried to explain his ma’s strange behavior.

  “No, it’s all right. I have a lot of work waiting for me back at the—” Jane flinched as Margareta swung a hand at her.

  Iain, unsure what else to do, swooped his ma in his arms and held her struggling form as Jane bolted for the door. The sound of her running footsteps faltered, and he heard Rory exclaim, “Easy, beautiful, not that I mind holding ya, but I usually get a name first.”

  Iain grumbled in frustration and set his ma down. “I’ll deal with ya in a moment.”

  By the time he made it to the hall, Rory was following a running Jane down the stairs.

  “Seriously, lassie, tell me which one of my kin scared ya and I’ll be sure to hex them good,” Rory offered.

  Iain muscled Rory out of his way as he tried to catch Jane, who was heading out the front door.

  “Hey, I saw her first!” Rory protested. Just as Iain’s feet landed on the reception hall floor, Rory hit him in the back with a small electrical charge. It was only a small burst of magick, more playful than painful, but it was enough to cause him to trip forward and fall against the wall.

  “Death’s reipseach!” Margareta screeched, toddling toward the stairs as if she would give chase.

  Iain wanted to go after Jane, but while she was technically unharmed, his ma looked like she was about to fall over.

  “Uh, Iain, why is Aunt Margareta calling that woman a hussy?” Rory crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled. “What did we tell ya about bringing prostitutes home?”

  Iain growled. He gestured at his ma as he made his way to catch her. “Shut up, Rory. Stop my ma, she’s about to fall.”

  Rory turned and swept his arm forward to stop the frail woman from tumbling down the staircase. “Easy there, Aunt Margareta. Where do ya think you’re going?”

  “Reipseach,” the woman insisted.

  “I know, I know, reipseach. Iain did always have questionable taste in women.” Rory turned to wink at Iain as he led Margareta down the hall to find her wheelchair. His ma was clearly out of her mind. The aftereffects of her future casting were worse than any of them had thought. “The bad lassie is gone now. Your work is done. Time to rest.”

  Iain stopped halfway up the stairs, letting Rory handle his ma for fear she’d become worked up again if he tried to help her. Sitting down on a step, he gave a weak laugh. To himself, he said, “Well, I sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  Twice he’d watched Jane run away from him. Once she fainted. For a glorious moment, she’d kissed him. And that was all in one day.

  A small smile formed on his mouth. He was suddenly very eager to see what tomorrow would bring.

  Chapter 8

  Jane liked the serenity of night. Okay, truthfully, she liked hiding like a coward all evening in case Sean came back to take her to dinner. If he couldn’t find her, he couldn’t guilt her into spending time with him. If she didn’t spend time with him, she wouldn’t have to listen to how great Dana was and how ungrateful of a stepdaughter she’d been. Or the weird questions about her birth mother. Jane had no idea what had prompted him to ask about it. She could only conclude with his own mother passing, he had moms on the brain.

  “Cowardice for the win,” Jane mumbled to herself. “I’ll hide until he goes away.”

  As the hours ticked on, she knew she should be sleeping, but if she tried to lie down, she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of Iain. Though the end of their time together had been mortifying—a kind of high school nightmare where you’re caught making out by the boy’s parents—the kiss leading up to it had been delightful.

  Growing up, boys had not been into dating the sick girl. So when she’d been well enough to date, she’d dated. A lot. Being faced with her own mortality had a way of bringing things into sharp perspective. There wasn’t much time to do anything, so at one point she had tried to do everything.

  The melody of the night forest played around her, so peaceful and quiet. She had given up whining about how life wasn’t fair. Fear still lingered in the back of her mind, fear of death, fear of the unknown, fear she would become a ghost, but she had years to make her peace with that. If she did haunt this place, she hoped it was her greenhouses and surrounding lands. That wouldn’t be a bad eternity. Then maybe, centuries from now, she would simply fade away, her energy dissipating into the landscape.

  “Iain MacGregor,” she whispered, looking up. The woods were quiet. Strips of moonlight shone through tree limbs that reached like surreal black fingertips across her vision. A single tear slid down her cheek. She touched her mouth, imagining his kiss.

  Taking a small pocketkn
ife out of her cargo pants, she looked about. A mystic had once told her that if she left pieces of herself around while she lived, it would expand her haunting territory when she died. Jane wasn’t sure she believed in sideshow magic tricks—or the Old Magick as the mystic had spelled it on her sign. She had no idea what had possessed her to talk to the palm reader and ask about ghosts. Still, just in case, she was leaving her stamp all over the woods.

  She cut her palm and pressed it to a nearby tree under a branch. Holding the wound to the rough bark stung at first, but then it made her feel better. This forest wouldn’t be a bad eternity.

  The sound of running feet erupted behind her, and she stiffened. No one ever came out here at night. She’d walked the woods hundreds of times. Her mind instantly went to the creepy girl ghosts chanting by the stream.

  “Whoo hoo!”

  Jane whipped around, startled as a streak of naked flesh sprinted past her. The Scottish voice was met with loud cheers from those who followed him. “Water’s this way, lads, or my name isn’t Raibeart MacGregor, King of the Highlands!”

  Another naked man dashed through the forest after him. “It smells of freedom.”

  Jane stayed hidden in the branches, undetected, with her hand pressed to the bark.

  “Aye, freedom from your proper Cait,” Raibeart answered, his voice coming through the dark where he’d disappeared into the trees.

  “Murdoch, stop him before he reaches town. Cait will not teleport ya out of jail again,” a third man yelled, not running quite so fast. “Raibeart, ya are goin’ the wrong way!”

  “Och, Angus, my Cait canna live without me,” Murdoch, the second streaker, answered. “She’ll always come to my rescue.”

  “I said stop him, Murdoch, we’re new to this place.” Angus skidded to a stop and lifted his jaw as if sensing he was being watched. He looked in her direction and instantly covered his manhood as his eyes caught Jane’s shocked face in the tree limbs. “Oh, lassie.”

  “Oh, naked man,” Jane teased before she could stop herself.

  “That I am,” Angus answered, “but there is an explanation for it.”

  “I don’t think some things need to be explained,” Jane said.

  “Fergus, Angus, Murdoch, turn it around and call a meeting at once,” Raibeart shouted. “Something foul is afoot. Someone stole the water right off our land. The stream is not where I left it.”

  “Raibeart stop ranting, ya drunkard, we have company,” Angus ordered. The shadows on his face shifted as he gave a sheepish grin. It was then she saw the similarities to Iain in his features.

  “I’m ready, brother. I thought I smelled a bean nighe in the forest,” Raibeart appeared suddenly, almost too suddenly from where his voice had echoed from. His arms were raised as if he was ready to ward off whatever danger he might face. “Where is that devil’s harlot? I’m not scared of death!”

  “Cover your bits,” Angus muttered.

  Raibeart looked at Angus in confusion, then at Jane. He stood frozen with his arms in the air. He sniffed in her direction. “She smells somewhat like a bean nighe, but she does not look like one. What kind of fight is this? She’s a wee slip of a lassie and far too young.”

  Jane tried to subtly sniff her arm. She smelled a little like garden soil.

  “Raibeart, some decency,” Angus scolded.

  “Why? I’m not ashamed.” Raibeart obeyed despite his words and cupped his hands over his exposed manhood. It became clearer with each passing second that the men had been drinking heavily. To Jane, he said, “Come out of hiding. Ya do no’ look like a bean nighe. What are ya doin’ trespassing in the MacGregor forest in the middle of the night? Are ya a wulver? A shellycoat? I have a nephew who’s a wulver.”

  “The MacGregor forest is that way.” Jane stepped away from the tree and pointed toward the direction the men had originally come from. She purposefully kept her eyes averted from their naked bodies. When she looked directly at them, it was only at their faces. “And he’s right. You’re going the wrong way if you want to reach the stream.”

  “Where’s that bean nighe?” Though he had streaked past rather quickly, she recognized Murdoch. He stopped, covered himself and eyed her. “Ya don’t look like a bean nighe.”

  “I don’t think I am one.” Jane didn’t stop to consider her strange situation—standing in the woods in the middle of the night, talking to middle-aged naked MacGregors. Even with hands up ready to fight the men looked fairly harmless. Nothing about them set off warning bells.

  “How can ya be certain?” Murdoch challenged.

  “Pretty sure I’d know if I was a bean nighe. I think my dad might have mentioned it to me at some point growing up if I wasn’t human. Besides—”, she pointed over at Murdoch, “—he said that even though I smell bad, I am too young.”

  “Not bad,” Raibeart corrected. “Just like ya have been swinging through the trees.”

  “No. I don’t swing through trees,” Jane assured them.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve seen an old washerwoman around here, have ya? Scrubbing away at some old clothes?” Raibeart inquired.

  How did he know what she’d hallucinated?

  “Quiet now. Don’t scare the girl,” Angus scolded.

  “Don’t worry,” Raibeart soothed. “The old woman won’t want anything to do with ya. And if ya see her, look away quickly and just leave her be. Nothing but heartache there.”

  “It’s just a myth,” Angus insisted, gritting his teeth as he gave Raibeart a look of warning. “He’s an idiot.”

  “Nothing wrong with drinking every once and a while and blowing off steam,” Jane answered in mild defense of Raibeart.

  “Och, no, lassie, he’s always an idiot,” Murdoch assured her.

  Raibeart grinned. “If she’s not a shellycoat, can I keep her?”

  “Sorry, I’m not really looking for a serious commitment right now.” Jane gave a small laugh.

  “It’s settled. I’m marrying this one.” Raibeart winked at her. “As long as she’s not a wulver. Hairy buggers always clogging up the shower drain—hey, where’s Fergus? We lost Fergus.”

  “He’s trying to resurrect his, um, find Elspeth,” Angus said.

  “You’re bleeding, Shelly.” Murdoch nodded at her hand.

  Jane lifted her hand. Blood had trailed down her fingers from the cut.

  “Ya come home with us. My Cait will fix ya up,” Murdoch insisted.

  “Oh, no, it’s just a scratch. I’m fine,” Jane tried to step back but her foot hit a rotted limb, and she stumbled.

  “She makes a salve that will leave nary a scar.” Clearly not taking no for an answer, he gestured his head for her to walk. “Best keep to the front of us being as you’re the only one dressed.”

  “I’m not sure I’m welcome at your home,” Jane said. “A woman—”

  “Nonsense! Don’t be scared, Shelly, I’ll lead the way. And don’t worry. We lock the crazy ones up at night. You’re safe with us.” Raibeart charged forward, arm in the air as if leading an army to battle with his invisible sword. His naked ass disappeared into the trees.

  “He’s going to get lost again,” Angus said. “Well, go on, follow the bright light reflecting off his arse like a beacon.”

  Curiosity and a sense of adventure caused her to follow. If anything, she’d make sure her neighbors made it home all right. Raibeart had moved too far ahead to see, but she did catch his occasional shout. The two others followed behind her, letting her set the pace.

  “What is a bean nighe?” she asked, resisting the urge to glance back.

  “I think a banshee is what ya kids are calling them nowadays,” Murdoch said. “It’s a death omen if ya see her washing burial clothes. We call her the washerwoman because of it, a bean nighe.”

  Sorrow filled Jane. She had seen such a woman. If she believed in ghosts because she saw them with her own eyes, how hard was it to believe she’d somehow seen a banshee? The children ghost had indicated her time was near and the
bean nighe appearing seemed to collaborate it. Not to mention Sean had showed up. That couldn’t be a good sign any way she looked at it—even if it was to tell her Dana was dead.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Angus inserted. “Just us superstitious Scots. Pay no mind to it. We see signs in everything.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jane put forth. “I think all manner of things are possible.”

  The sounds of Gaelic singing resounded over the forest, coming from Raibeart.

  “For example?” Angus inquired.

  “Ghosts,” she said, not knowing why she did.

  “Every house in Scotland has a ghost,” Murdoch answered. “And if it doesn’t, the English live there and the ghosts don’t want anything to do with them.”

  “What are ya talking about?” Angus snorted.

  “I don’t know. I’m drunk.” Murdoch laughed.

  A sound of a scuffle sounded from Raibeart, followed by the rustling of leaves and several large crashes.

  “Is he all right?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, sure, probably losing a fight against a squirrel,” Angus said.

  “Or his shadow,” Murdoch added. Neither man seemed too worried.

  Since Raibeart had wandered off course, Jane led the way to the mansion. The overgrown path opened up to the side yard of the house. Down the hill in the valley, the town lights shone, far enough to create a beautiful pattern of star dust on Earth, but close enough some general shapes could still be made out, like the line of Main Street and the curve of side roads.

  Spotlights shone against the siding of the Georgian mansion. The stark white practically glowed against the darker night of the surrounding landscape. From town, it would look like a beacon on the hill.

  “How did you get the home painted so quickly?” she asked, furrowing her brow. It was a change she had not noticed when the old lady chased her out earlier. She’d probably only imagined the yellowed paint in her efforts to run away.

  “Oh, ah,” Angus began.

  “Magick!” Raibeart announced, charging from the tree line to the front door of the house. Pieces of forest litter were tangled in his hair. “We cast a spell.”