by Karey Brown
“Alba.”
“A bus is called an alba?”
Garreck chuckled. “No, here, where we are located, this is Alba.”
Emily cocked her head. “Alba is ancient Scotland.”
“Aye.”
She stared up at him for several long seconds before he slightly nudged her to resume their walk.
“Who’s Allen?”
“A nuisance we—“
“Oh-my-God!”
Garreck chuckled. “Aye, lass. One of the favorite pastimes of the young ladies working here in the upper bailey is to observe. Drink yer’ fill.”
“Can I have a straw?”
Garreck erupted into rich male laughter, watching as Emily visually gorged on the scene before her. She grinned approvingly. Broc had removed his shirt. Yum-yum. Clad in thigh loving jeans, tall black boots, his sun-kissed chest caused her mouth to go dry. Super yum. Sweat glistened on his flesh, swathing his narrow waist . . . he has a six pack. Emily nearly convulsed. Oh my God, a treasure trail—
Laughter boomed around her.
“A treasure trail, lass?”
“Shit! I mean, oh, I’m so sorry.” Her face burned. It didn’t help that Garreck’s head was thrown back, laughing, thus, drawing attention from the demi-God waylaying Kavan with his claymore.
Broc glowered.
She could not reciprocate. He’s serious eye candy. Nah, more like a wet dream. Got towels?
“Would there be somethin’ ye’ need, Lady Emily?”
What I need would be most inappropriate here. Emily swallowed. No good. Mouth was still dry. Not her palms, however. They were damp. Maybe she could dry them on his—
“I’ll ask ye’ again. Is there somethin’ ye’ need, or are we ta’ merely bask in yer’ gawking?”
“Your Highness, I apologize for enjoying a walk with your vassal—“
“Captain,” Garreck and Broc chimed.
“It was never my intent to disturb you, Your Worshipfulness.”
“Worshipfulness,” he whispered. A quick glare shot towards his men silenced their snickering.
“Obviously, you are too uppity for my presence, so, before your frown scars your face, and your shitty attitude can once again remind me how inadequate I am in the face of your aristocracy, I’ll take my leave.”
His men choked.
“Apparently,” she continued, “my being an Yank and all, I’ve missed the cue that at some point I’m to curtsey in your presence, Oh Imperial One. Perhaps next time I’ll send you a . . . what do you call it,” she tapped her lips with her index finger, concentrating.
Broc’s gaze narrowed.
“Ah, yes,” she snapped her fingers. “A missive. Yes, that’s it. I’ll send you a missive next time I’m sorely tempted to look upon your,” Emily waggled her fingers, “manliness. Please, don’t mind me. Carry on with your roleplaying at being a medieval warrior. And, just so you know, a lot more went into being a man back in the day than clobbering your men with pretty swords. Idiot.”
Broc’s lip pulled back, snarling.
“Tell me, if they happen to waylay you, do you complete this medieval act by sending your men down to the dungeons? You don’t seem the type who takes to losing very well.” Emily’s eyes widened. “Ooooh, perhaps that’s what you do to those of us not waiting for a missive to your precious castle.” She bowed deeply, fluttering her hand out in front of her, while mimicking his accent. “I’ll take my leave of you, Sir Snob, so that you may continue playing.” She rose with much pomp, imitating a dandy by taking high steps as if the dirt beneath her soles were repugnant, and retreated from his presence.
“Playing,” Broc hissed.
Erchyll crossed himself.
Broc lunged. He was grappled, thwarting his attack.
“Last I checked, Sir Butthead, we now shoot our enemies. Swords are collectibles. Toys.” She glanced back at him, arching a pale brow. Her implication that he was an idiot was not lost on him. “Duh.”
“A real mohn doosna’ shoot his enemy—“
“A real man has a job, not some inheritance allowing him to play all day.”
“Mayhaps, she’d like ta’ play swords wi’ ye’, Imperial One.”
Broc visually burned a hole in Kavan.
“I’m just sayin’, the other night, she seemed a bit skilled wi’ her ability ta’ wield yer’ sword.”
“I willna’ play at swords with a woman. Especially, that woman!”
Emily jerked. When she turned around, every man present took an unconscious step back. “Afraid you’ll be humiliated by your lack-wit-skill?” She asked, her voice husky. “And, just for the record, do you prance in front of some long mirror each night, practicing that stink eye?” She turned her head, glaring at him, first with her left eye, then overdramatically with her right. “Do you rehearse your shitty comments as well?” This time, she imitated his brogue while splaying her hand over her chest. “I am bettah than ye’, I am bettah than thou. Bow to me, oh miserable wretch tha’ ye be.”
Male laughter extinguished to choking, but suffocation of mirth failed, Broc’s men clasping one another, weakened by their humor.
“Prance?” Obsidian eyes actually darkened. “Yer’ language be foul, a bite to yer’ tongue, lass. Could this be why ye’ lack a mohn ta’ take ye’ to the alter?”
“You vicious swine-kissing eavesdropping half-assed bastard!”
“Milady,” Garreck whispered amidst gasps from their captive audience. “When the laird’s eyes look like tha’, best ta’—“
Before any could fathom her next move, Emily lunged at a man playing sword caddy, and swiped one of his battle-scuffed blades. “I’ll show you taking arms against a woman.” She charged, her temper sizzling. “I doona’ ‘ave a man in mi’ life because I haven’t yet met one capable o’ fillin’ his plaid!”
“Och, she’s a sword,” Kavan warned.
“And a temper!” Erchyll admired loudly. “God likes ‘em mean.”
“Aye, and a brogue ta’ match,” Colin added.
“Bloody saints, I’ve arrived in time!” Allen stated.
Ancient warriors groaned. “The English arrive.”
“Mayhaps she’ll skewer him,” Colin muttered.
“No good can come of it. He’ll reappear a few days hence, babblin’ about our lacking etiquette,” Kavan warned.
Erchyll chaffed his hands. “We’ll repent.”
Emily raised her sword, its tip once again aimed for Broc’s chin. “Not going to raise your weapon, fool?”
“I’ll no’ take up arms against a woman, nor a guest in my home.”
“I could argue that,” Allen called out.
“Silence, Sassenach,” chorused the crowd.
“Though, said guest could use a sound thrashing,” Broc finished. He grinned, trying to lighten the moment.
Emily no longer heard their ruckus. She only saw Broc’s scar. From just under his left breast, down to his right hip. Her sword lowered. Dozens of horses materialized, stamping their protest against the cold. Reigns, saddles, swords and mail creaked and clanged in the winter breeze. Tension squeezed the air. Condensation spiraled from waiting warriors and the snouts of their steeds. Someone yelled a command, commencing the mounts to form a line. Hundreds and hundreds of foot soldiers followed, dressed in battle regalia she’d only seen in fantasy movies. She witnessed her own arm rise, draped in clothing she did not recognize. Her arm came down. Her sword sliced. A vertical clean ribbon of blood bloomed across Broc’s torso.
Emily reared. Broc lunged, catching her before she fell. Her sword thudded into the snow. “Broc?”
“Aye, lass.” Her eyes were terror-filled. “What vision trespassed yer’ mind?”
“Your scar.” She pulled away from him. Peripheral vision increased her nervousness. Not one horse was present. Just a dozen faces, and they were staring hard. Their hair billowed in the strengthening wind. No longer were they laughing.
“Broc?” her voice became as tiny as
she.
“I’m here, lass.” Gently, he touched her arm, though she didn’t witness his nod for Kavan to confiscate her disowned weapon. He had seen her eyes change, misplace their focus. Similar to when The Sight took hold of Maeve.
“There were horses . . . and . . . hundreds of riders.” Her gaze locked on his scar. “I did that to you. I saw my own hand slice across you.” She backed away. “Impossible.”
“A long time ago, Lady Emily.”
“You lie. I’ve never attacked anyone. I signed a contract when I started fencing lessons, that I would never use my training against anyone.”
“Contract’s breeched,” Kavan muttered.
“Clauses,” Allen explained. “Free pass.”
“I’ve never seen you before coming to Scotland.” Pointedly, she looked at his scar. “I want to go home. I don’t want any more stories about something hunting me. I was sent here on a fool’s run. I’ve overstayed my welcome, which you’ve made obvious time and time again. I’m leaving.” She spun about and shrieked. Lightning speed, Broc’s arms wrapped around her waist, swiveled her to his side, his sword held out daring any to draw near.
“That man,” Emily pointed shakily, “he just shimmered!”
“Oh, well, I popped in—oof—arrived a few moments ago.” Allen rubbed his ribcage, eyeing Garreck warily. Emily failed to notice she pressed back, deeper against Broc’s body.
Every man present grinned stupidly.
“Y-you’re really a g-ghost?”
Allen looked to Garreck. “Am I allowed to answer?”
“Aye, wastrel.”
“Now see here!”
“Sassenach!” Broc bellowed.
Emily flinched, which succeeded in snapping her from her stupor and honing in on the fact that the god had his arm pressed just under her breasts. His scent emblazoned her sanity. Man. Warm man. Half naked warm man. Her ovaries donned little black shoes and started a Riverdance, her uterus their stage. If she turned her head ever-so-slight and stuck out her tongue, she could taste him. She’d just pretend to be licking her lips—
Do it and I’ll cut the appendage from your mouth!
Emily squeaked against the booming male voice in her head. Broc eyed her for a moment before resuming his scowl on Allen.
“I’m a ghost, but not like in stories or those movies your realm is fond of making. I’m just a scholar and, for some unfathomable reason, stuck here. That would be my curse.”
“And ours,” Kavan, Erchyll and Aedan chorused.
“S-so, you d-don’t haunt or drag chains or slam furniture around?” Which was worse? The strong band of forearm wrapped around her and attached to a very male body—Emily swallowed convulsively—or the ghost she actually conversed with? He doesn’t look like a ghost. Looks as flesh and blood as Garreck. Inhale. Oh, goody, now I can smell his highlander scented body. I could bottle that and be rich. Highlander scented sachets. Highlander scented potpourri. Highlander scented candles.
“I daresay, Lady Emily, you look a bit green,” Allen stated.
Exhale. She’d forgotten to breathe. Broc stepped around, cupping her chin, tilting her face for his scrutiny. She blushed profusely, looking everywhere but up at him. She pulled back and dropped her gaze to the snow. There were many different textures to snow. Little hills and valleys—strong, warm fingers clasped under her chin again, raising her face. She had no choice but to drown in his gorgeous face.
“Please,” she whisper-squeaked.
“Oh, aye.” He pressed against her, male dominance, lowering his mouth, possessing hers with a feathery touch. It was just like her books! And damn! Her knees actually weakened. “This is not what I meant,” she whispered against his mouth. Yes it is, her mind screamed.
“Lass, yer’ trews are soaked to yer’ thighs.”
“You have no idea.”
His laughter erupted.
Shit-hell-damn! Must apply more effort against thinking out loud. She pulled free from his grasp. And what’s up with this blushing crap?! I’ve never blushed in my life!
“You’re still healing from your injuries. I would see you settled in dry clothes, a hearth ta’ warm ye’, before chill sets into yer’ bones.”
“Forever scowling, going out of your way to make sure I never forget the inconvenience my presence places you in, and now you not only kiss me, but want to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story? Why don’t you just simplify your life by letting me go home?”
“There is no need to further discuss a decision I have made. Mi’ word is law here, Lady Emily, and the law rarely changes.”
She bolted past him, her back prickling like Texas cactus. Wind whisked around the high towers and roared in the tomb silence. Emily glanced up at the turrets. There had to be at least twenty gruff faces and one dark-haired woman staring down at her. God, they’d all witnessed that kiss! He might as well have lifted his leg and peed on me, marking his territory!
“Lady Emily?” Broc called to her.
Awash with humiliation and anger, she only turned partway, eyeing him peripherally.
“I doona frown for the fact ye’ grace us with yer’ presence. ‘Tis most welcome ye’ be. My home belongs to you. I willna’ ‘ave ye’ plotting how ta’ leave.”
“Really?” She dared look at him. “And what actions have you taken to convince me otherwise? I’m a prisoner here. Only thing missing is a dungeon.”
“We ‘ave a dungeon.”
“Humor doesn’t sit well with you.” Furious, she sprinted towards the front entrance of the grand castle. He had looked at her like . . . like a man about to devour his favorite dessert. I don’t want to be devoured. I want to belong.
He dies a slow death if he dares ever to touch you again, Keer’dra!
Emily whirled. She remained alone. Eyes watering, she looked above and around one last time. The voice resembled the same timbre as her dream lover. I’m seriously losing it.
* * * * *
Broc watched her, mindless of his men shuffling around him, until she was nothing more than a memory of seconds past.
He’d kissed her.
What the bloody ‘ell was I thinkin’? She’s a stranger to me. She’s no’ Aurelia. No’ mi’ right ta’ be takin’ liberties wi’ her. Aye, Aurelia returned, but the wee lass doosna’ realize this. No’ yet. Inwardly, he groaned. And I kissed her in front of mi’ men. I must apologize. That damnable book of hers has me thinking all kinds of insane thoughts. Broc swiped his face. Aye, if I met the one having penned that damnable rubbish, I’d give her an earful. No’ right, making public events best remaining in private chambers, providin’ women with details ta’ compare a mohn’s prowess by. Aye, but she did feel right, leaning against me. Perfect fit in mi’ arms.
Broc swelled with pride, having wrapped an arm around her, sword drawn, protecting her from her fright. But that’s all he could ever be. Her champion. Never her mate. Forbidden.
“Perhaps you would care for a swim in the lake?” a velvety voice offered from behind.
“Loch, and no, water freezes this time o’ year,” Broc snapped.
“Precisely.”
“How long ‘ave ye’ stood there, Elf?”
“Long enough.”
Broc turned. Aunsgar’s blue eyes glittered, level with Broc’s.
“No’ one word.”
“You are too old for lectures on decorum,” Aunsgar stated.
“The tyrant could use a few lectures,” Aedan called out, his face suspiciously bruised.
“Ye’ cross lines ye’ doona ‘ave the right ta’ be treadin’,” Broc warned.
“Touch her again, ye’ kill us all by the wrath of Pendaran or the wrath of the Lumynari prince we protect her for. I’ll do more than cross lines, milord.” Furiously, Aedan stomped through Emily’s trail, following her towards the keep.
“I’ll remind myself ye’ be her shield guard. Otherwise, careful, pup.”
Aedan spun about, hissing remarkably like a cat, sprinting away when Broc r
eached for strapped blade. Impaling the snow footprint Aedan had just lifted his foot from, ancient hilt of the laird’s sgian dubh publicized his erratic emotions of late.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I could use a bit of light in here,” Hades bellowed.
Flames geysered from unseen pits. Shaking his head, he looked to his son. “Why do they forever assume I mean fire? It chafes my skin.”
“Because you reside in Hell?” Dezenial inquired.
“It was cute when you were a child. I’ll not tolerate your goading, now that you’re a grown . . . what are you anyway?”
Dezenial shrugged. “I too remain forever baffled.”
Hades narrowed black brows. “Be grateful Persephone likes you.”
“You said you’d keep Aurelia here. Safe, you vowed, her spirit never to suffer manipulations of life or another brutal death!”
“We discussed this twenty-four years ago.”
“We’re discussing it again.”
Hades’ gave his son a black look before answering. “You remember your uncle? You know, the one whom we all revere? Let me see, what’s his name again . . .”
Dezenial sighed. “Zeus.”
Hades snapped his fingers, wagging his index finger at Dezenial. “Yeah, yeah, that one.”
“Your point?”
Hades floated closer. “My point, oh favorite son of mine, is that, though I can wreak havoc, I too have certain rules to abide by. Sucks, I know, but there you are. I can’t keep a soul unless it’s damned. Zaiyne and Aurelia lacked proper qualifications, but Emily, for her, I hold out hope. Spunky, that one. I like her.”
“You would.”
“Did she tell you I had the nicest chambers created for her? Oh, wait, that’s right, you’ve decided in this life of hers, you will guard, but not touch. Warm female mortal flesh, and you contend yourself to settle for her shadows.”
“Three times, my world has killed her.” Dezenial folded muscled arms, glaring. At nine thousand seven hundred sixty three years old, he’d be damned if he was going to suffer lectures.
“I’ll lecture you,” Hades informed him.
Dezenial bared his fangs, hissing with rage.