An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two

by Nancy Scanlon

  Never before had Emma so wished she had a family like this one. All the men were still so devoted to their family member, years after her death. Emma felt a flash of sadness for them all. The more she learned of Bri, the more certain she was that they would’ve been friends.

  Of course, she’d have been meeting her under really strange circumstances, so who knew what the woman would’ve thought? Hi, I’m Emma. I work for Aidan, but every time I look at him, my knees get a bit wobbly. It’s okay, though, because we’re not a thing, that’d be unethical. Oh, and I’m on the run from my ex, and I’m just going to crash here with your family until I figure out what I’m going to do.

  Yeah. That’d go over well.

  “…in here,” Colin was saying.

  She blinked at him and ceased her imaginary conversation with a dead woman. Quickly, she promised herself to work on a real social life once she’d sorted her current mess out. “Sorry, I was woolgathering. What was that?”

  He waved her further into the room. “I was saying, feel free to hang out in here. It’s a great place to lose yourself for a while.”

  “You’re right. And thank you.” She paused. “So, if the first floor has the kitchen, living room, office, and a bathroom, and the second floor has four bedrooms…”

  “Two of the bedrooms have their own bathrooms,” Colin informed her. “Aidan’s room and the one that’s unoccupied. Something’s up with the plumbing, so I’m not using it until I can get someone to fix it.”

  “Okay, so four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Then you have this floor, which is incredible…what’s on the fourth floor?”

  He grinned. “My master suite.”

  Images of what that must look like flitted through her mind, but before she could ask, he said, “I can show it to you next, if you like.”

  She blushed.

  “Anyway,” Colin said, taking pity on her, “please feel free to make use of this room. Until your apartment is ready, I want you to feel at home here.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, glancing around again. She couldn’t wait to get started—she spied a copy of Buile Suibhne, her favorite late medieval Irish tale, and she was itching to get her hands on it to read the translation.

  “The stairs over there”—he pointed to the opposite end of the room, to a matching balustrade—“go straight down to the kitchen. Feel free to bring anything up here.”

  She nodded, and Colin gave her a salute before loping down the stairs.

  Hurrying over to the gold book, she carefully pulled it down and grinned at the cover. She loved every single thing about medieval Ireland. Though she’d also studied the politics and religious theory, she loved the folklore and stories best. Buile Suibhne was by far her favorite—a violent, temper-driven pagan king who’s cursed by a bishop, who ultimately finds salvation when he converts to Christianity.

  The sociological truths buried in those pages made her head spin with excitement.

  She carefully opened the cover and turned a page. Then another. And another, and another…and realized they were completely in Irish Gaelic.

  She frowned. She didn’t recognize some of the words.

  She went to flip to the copyright page, but there wasn’t one. She realized with a start that she was holding a very old copy of the original text in its original language, and she had nothing better to do than wrap herself in a fleece blanket and sit on the window seat.

  Her day was looking like one of her best ever.

  She placed the book on the seat, then decided she needed sustenance. She knew herself; once she cracked open that book in earnest, she wouldn’t move, even if the house was on fire. Temporarily quashing her inner history nerd, she headed downstairs.

  Thirty minutes later, Emma sat on the comfortable window seat, Buile Suibhne forgotten in her lap.

  She was frozen to the spot, absorbed by the spectacle happening three stories below her, in Colin’s tiny back garden. At first, she tried to look away. When her eyes wouldn’t comply with her demands, she tried talking to them sternly, to convince them that she was doing nothing better than spying. She even attempted to close her eyes, but it was pointless.

  After all, she was watching two incredibly beautiful, shirtless men swordfight—with medieval swords—directly below her.

  She could appreciate Colin’s strength and grace. His arm muscles bulged and flexed with each parry. A large, dark tattoo wound about each of his upper arms, and they seemed to dance with each thrust. The sound of his laughter was almost as loud as the ring of metal against metal. His chest was rock hard, leading to a tight six-pack that she suspected was actually more like an eight-pack. A light dusting of hair covered his chest.

  Her eyes, once they’d fully scoped the male beauty that was Colin O’Rourke, strayed to Aidan. And once they landed on him, they wouldn’t move.

  Never before had she had such little control over her vision.

  Emma drank in every detail of him. Every well-defined muscle in his chest, arms, stomach, and back rippled as he parried. He looked as though he’d recently spent time in the sun. Aidan’s face was tightened into lines of concentration, but every once in a while he’d throw out a laugh and her heart would kick into high gear. He was taller than Colin, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. Broad shoulders gave way to a muscled back.

  Amazing. She’d never noticed how attractive a man’s back could be.

  It seemed they were verbally sparring as well, though she couldn’t hear them. The harder one laughed, the harder the other fought. Aidan’s forearms bunched with each clash of the blades, and he also had tattoos around his arms, similar in style to Colin’s. She couldn’t make out the details, but it looked like Celtic knots or some sort of vines.

  She continued to shamelessly admire Aidan from the safety of the library. His chest was sculpted, with incredible pecs that flexed menacingly with his swordfighting. His stomach had more muscles than she thought humanly possible, and just the sight of his obliques inexplicably sped her breathing. From this height, she could just make out a happy trail, and she suddenly had an intense desire to follow that trail wherever it would take her.

  Emma almost slapped herself. She was being fanciful and ridiculous. Get a grip! she chided herself. Work ethic, Perkins. Dig it out from the under that avalanche of lust.

  She refused to think of the kiss last night. He was way out of her league, anyway. He was wealthy, model-gorgeous, knew how to wear a medieval léine, and was, she admitted, a great kisser. The man did things with his tongue that made her—

  She blew out a breath slowly. Do. Not. Think. Of. That. Apparently, after convincing her they didn’t exist, her hormones finally decided to make an appearance in her life. She was not appreciative of their timing.

  When the two men finally paused for a water break, Emma decided it was time to stop ogling and get down to her reading.

  The trouble was, history didn’t hold a candle to her present day.

  • • •

  “Ow!”

  Emma shook her hand and glared at the fancy espresso/latte/coffee device in Colin’s kitchen. It had looked harmless when she first approached it, but the moment she touched the damn thing, it spit and hissed like a caged wild animal.

  Because she was the first one up today, she thought it might be nice to make coffee. Colin always seemed to have some ready for her and anyone else who wanted it, so she padded down the gorgeous white-and-oak stairs, her steps muffled on the beautiful oriental stair treads. Her bare toes sank into the thick carpet in the main hallway on the way to the stunning chef’s kitchen, and she marveled at the house’s cleanliness.

  Except the office, she reminded herself with a chuckle.

  She placed her hands on her hips and returned her attention to the problem at hand. She never actually saw Colin make the coffee; she wasn’t sure where to put the grounds.

  She glanced at the maple cabinets above the caramel-colored granite counters and let out a sigh. She didn’t even know wh
ich one would contain coffee.

  She spied a little red lever on the angry machine and the box of English Breakfast tea on the counter. After a quick search, she located the coffee mugs and placed a bag in one. She placed her cup under the spout and had her finger on the lever when a rumble of laughter from behind stopped her cold.

  “I wouldn’t use that one, lass.” Aidan walked into the kitchen, dressed in a black tee and running shorts, a towel around his neck. “That starts the foamer.”

  “Foamer?” she echoed, carefully removing her hand.

  “Aye. I don’t know why he doesn’t have a normal pot, like the rest of mankind.”

  She looked down at her cup. “Well, perhaps I won’t have any tea, either.”

  “Either?”

  She placed her cup back in the cabinet. “Well, at first I thought it would be nice if I made coffee for everyone, since Colin always has it made for everyone else. When I hit the on switch, it spit at me and burned my hand.”

  “It spit at you,” Aidan repeated, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “Yes,” she said firmly, “it spit at me. Then I realized that I didn’t know where the coffee was, so I gave up that plan. I saw the tea and thought I’d make a cup, but, well, you know how that went.” She glared at the machine. “I don’t like this thing.”

  Aidan walked around the island between him and Emma slowly, and she suddenly felt like prey.

  Was there a word for prey that wanted to be caught?

  No, no, no. Stop it. He’s just going to show me how to—

  He stopped directly in front of her, his body inches from hers, and slowly leaned in. Emma’s breath hitched, and her body went on full alert, her senses hyperaware of him. His clean scent filled her nose, and his nearness made her knees turn to jelly. When her eyes locked on his clean-shaven face, it took every fiber of her being not to rise up on her toes and run her tongue along his jawline.

  His eyes met hers, and she saw it—raw hunger. As he raised his hand slowly, she parted her lips, hoping for a second taste of Aidan MacWilliam.

  The sound of something rustling above her head forced her to look up.

  Aidan brought a bag of coffee down to the counter and trapped her between his arms.

  She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move.

  They stood like that for a long moment before he shook his head a little, as if questioning his sanity, before he placed his hand on her jaw, tugged it open, and melded his firm lips to hers. Her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, and she was suddenly enveloped in his arms, his hand stroking her neck. He cradled her head and flicked his tongue to hers. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and brought them up to his neck, as he kissed her gently, carefully, as though she would break.

  She sighed softly and leaned into him, and he growled into her mouth. Aidan kept one hand in her hair, his fingers gentle, and pressed his other hand into the small of her back, bringing her body flush with his. He deepened the kiss, devouring her in the best of ways. Emma felt cherished, branded, and hot all over.

  She pressed into him harder, and he slid his hand up her spine, sending chills throughout her overheated body. She ran her fingers through his hair, surprised at its softness. He drew her attention away from wandering thoughts, though, when, without breaking the kiss, he grasped her waist and lifted her onto the counter. He angled her head and kissed her as though his life depended on it.

  She lost all coherent thought.

  His hands were on her back, her shoulders, her hair, her legs. She dragged her hands up his abs, feeling the ridges of muscles and flesh; she wanted to tear his shirt off and kiss him everywhere, all at once.

  “Ahem.”

  Dimly, she registered that someone was standing on the other side of the island, and she tried to disengage from Aidan.

  “Kitchen’s closed,” Aidan said, his voice rough. He rested his forehead against Emma’s.

  “Let me know when it’s open, all right? I need some coffee before I start working,” Colin replied, the grin in his voice unmistakable. A few seconds later, a door opened and closed.

  They looked at each other for a moment, breathing hard, and didn’t say anything. Aidan flicked his gaze to her lips, and kissed her hard and deep before pulling away. “I won’t apologize for that.”

  More confused than ever, she glared at him. “I don’t know whether to slap you or…or…”

  His green gaze locked on her for another moment, and he let out a sudden chuckle. “Christ, Emma, what you reduce me to. Kissing you in my cousin’s kitchen.”

  “That felt more like ravishing,” she snapped before she could stop herself. She slid off the counter.

  He brought his body against hers once more, and she cursed herself for freezing in place. He leaned down, his mouth on her ear, and ran his tongue along it. “Then you’ve never been properly ravished,” he whispered. He wagged his eyebrows at her, and she pushed away from him. He chuckled.

  “I hate it when I miss a good joke,” Reilly said, walking in. He was dressed similarly to Aidan, in shorts and a tee, holding a towel and a water bottle. His jaw hardened when he saw the two of them together. “You look like you’re ready for our exercise this morning, MacWilliam. And your lady friend looks like she may be in need of a guardian.”

  “Give it a rest, O’Malley.”

  “I’m a Protector,” Reilly said, as though that were some sort of explanation.

  Emma wrinkled her brow. “What do you protect?” she asked.

  “All sorts of things,” he replied. “Lasses, mostly.”

  She arched a brow at him.

  “Wolf in sheep’s clothing, lass.” He threw a nod toward Aidan, who gave her a quick grin and headed out the back door.

  “Is it safe to enter?” Colin asked, poking his head in the kitchen. He gave her a dazzling smile and noticed the bag behind her. “Ah. I see you found the coffee.”

  She threw up her hands and stomped toward the stairs, leaving Colin scratching his chin in the kitchen.

  Chapter 8

  Aidan ran along the street, barely breaking a sweat. Reilly kept pace easily and, perhaps more importantly, silently. Aidan did not want to discuss the events of his morning, and certainly not with Reilly.

  They made their way through the streets of Boston’s Back Bay, and Aidan couldn’t help but notice the signs of spring. The trees showed their green, and some residents had already filled their flower boxes with colorful tulips, daffodils, and peonies. It was pleasantly cool.

  And still, Aidan couldn’t shake the tension from his body.

  “Were you able to find anything out?” he finally asked.

  Reilly slowed. “Aye.”

  Aidan matched his pace. Reilly had contacts in places Aidan couldn’t reach; his network was vast. And despite their contentious relationship, Aidan would always fight to the death for Reilly, and the feeling was mutual. They’d been through so much together that they couldn’t not have genuine respect for each other, despite the constant needling.

  Reilly avoided a large crack in the concrete. “We were followed here. He hasn’t figured out where we’re staying, I don’t believe. I’ve not yet determined how desperate he is to get to your Emma.”

  “I wonder what he thinks she can give him?” Aidan slowed his pace further.

  “Money?”

  “I believe he drained her account.”

  “So he took her money and destroyed her apartment,” Reilly mused, then stopped to take a drink. He swallowed and continued, “And, of course, the bastard threatened her. Do you think he laid a hand on her?”

  “She didn’t say,” Aidan replied, the hair on the back of his neck rising. “If he did, he’ll pay for it.”

  Reilly slanted a glance at Aidan, and they both realized at the same time that the feeling on their necks hadn’t anything to do with the thought of Emma being manhandled.

  The weak morning sunlight glinted off a sharp switchblade, aimed point-blank at Aidan’s
throat.

  “Where’s my fiancée?” the knife-wielder demanded, his voice low.

  Aidan gave Reilly a look, as though to say Is this lad serious?, and that was enough to set the man off. He rushed Aidan at the same time another man came at Reilly from behind.

  Aidan caught Ben MacDermott by the wrist and wrestled him to the ground. He sucked in a breath when the man’s foot connected with his shin. He felt the knife tip graze his chest, and his anger flared. Aidan slammed MacDermott’s wrist against the hard concrete and felt the satisfying crunch of bone. MacDermott’s knee came up, and Aidan easily deflected it, clucking his tongue.

  “Playing dirty, Benjamin?”

  “She belongs to me,” he grunted as cradled his wrist. “Wherever you take her, wherever you hide her, I will find her.” He spat in Aidan’s face.

  Aidan wiped the spit from his eyes and realized too late he’d given Ben an opening—he received a swift and painful head-butt to the nose. Blood spurted immediately, and Aidan’s patience snapped.

  “Not likely, Romeo. She’s under my protection now.”

  He gave a swift jab to the man’s Adam’s apple, making him choke for breath, then flipped him onto his stomach and pried the knife from his hand. Quickly, he slammed the hilt of the knife against Ben’s cranium, knocking him out.

  Reilly sat on the bench, brushing the dirt from his hands as his assailant lay blissfully unconscious and sported a nasty bruise and broken nose. Reilly gave a jerk of his head at Ben. “Kill him?”

  “I wanted to,” Aidan growled, slowly standing and shaking out his wrists.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Sirens sounded nearby, and Aidan clenched his jaw. “He’s not worth the punishment here. In my time, a sword to the stomach would end this, and that would be that.”

  “You know how I loathe agreeing with you, but in this case, you’re correct. Let’s go, before the cops get here. I have no desire to spend my morning filling out endless paperwork.”