Highland Knight

by Cindy Miles

  As the figure drew closer, Amelia begrudgingly admitted, only to her own stupid self, that she was just as intrigued and fascinated by the castle’s owner as she was the castle itself.

  Dangit.

  Without the first bit of shame, and why would she have any, anyway? She was a woman appreciating the physique of an able-bodied man. That said man was over seven hundred years old was another subject altogether, and one she’d entertain herself with at another time. For now she was busy banking to memory this moment. Amelia watched as Ethan crossed the distance. Why he didn’t just blink himself to her, instead of walking when he didn’t have to, she didn’t know or care. When an opportunity knocked, she was not the type of gal to ignore that knock. She was, in fact, a knock answerer, and proud of it.

  With long, assured strides, Ethan crossed over the same stretch of ground she had earlier, only with a sure-footedness Amelia had certainly lacked. And why not? He’d been crossing that land for centuries.

  He looked damn good doing it, too.

  So good, in fact, that Amelia felt the ogling of the seven-hundred-year-old laird deserved a decent sitting down sort of ogle. So she found a big rock and sat, chin in hands, and nonchalantly ogled. Juvenile of her? Absolutely. But who would know besides her?

  Honest to God, no other guy could look anywhere near as sexy wearing a big, long bolt of plaid cloth, as Ethan Munro did. He somehow took one end, started wrapping, until he ended up with just a corner of it, secured with a silver sort of clasp, or brooch, at one shoulder. A thick, wide leather belt cinched loosely around his hips, with a few knives poked in here and there, and then the hem of that plaid—called a kilt in modern times, she supposed—swished in a very manly way around his knees with each swaggering, confident step. Above his right shoulder, the ever-present hilt of the biggest sword she’d ever laid eyes on stuck out like an extra appendage. Did he sleep with that thing on? Sheesh, she’d have to remember to ask him that one.

  Okay, she’d admit it: the silver armbands completely intrigued her. If she’d seen them on a male model, perhaps, she’d have scoffed and probably made fun. But on Ethan? Maybe one had to be from the fourteenth century to properly get away with wearing silver arm cuffs, but good grief, they made a very appealing accent to his very cut biceps. She didn’t know how heavy that sword of his was, but she’d bet a bag of Dove chocolates it certainly contributed to the size and bulk of Ethan’s build, not to mention the extra force it probably took to hack through bone and sinew.

  Ah, the head. The one atop his very broad shoulders, that is. Only a guy from medieval Scotland could get away with having hair that long and that wild. Not curly, but not straight, either, it had no other description except wild. Not ratty, mind you, or knotty. Just wild. Dark, with a narrow braid at each temple, he’d gathered it all back in a low ponytail, leaving his features completely unobstructed, which was absolutely fine with her. Strong jaw, eyes just the right distance apart, brows thick but not too bushy, straight nose, and the scars on his face? Her brothers would both kill to have cool, chick-magnet scars like the ones Ethan had. She’d have to ask how he got them . . .

  It was then she noticed just how close Ethan had gotten. Close enough for her to see a very cocky, male smirk on his face. The one that screamed ‘‘BUSTED!’’ in a loud, clear, proud voice. She didn’t care. She smiled back.

  ‘‘You can just wipe that grin off your face, Munro. I confess, I was ogling. Sue me.’’ She shrugged and turned off her iPod. ‘‘It’s not every day a girl gets to watch a fourteenth-century warrior swagger toward her.’’

  Ethan stopped, unwinded, of course, and shook his head, grin still affixed. ‘‘I dunna swagger.’’

  Amelia laughed. ‘‘You definitely swagger.’’ She stood, brushed off her backside, and mock-cracked her knuckles. ‘‘Okay, back up. This is you, swaggering. ’’ She proceeded to do her best imitation of, well, Ethan swaggering. She made one pass in front of him, then one more.

  With a sound that echoed across the loch, Ethan laughed. A big, loud, guy laugh. He crossed his arms, still shaking his head.

  ‘‘What?’’ Amelia asked, unable to stop her own chuckle. ‘‘I swear, that is so the way you walk.’’ She gave an affirmative nod. ‘‘Swagger.’’

  With those pewter eyes, he stared at her. ‘‘Verra well, lass. I swagger.’’

  In her earlier assessment of Ethan’s attributes, had she failed to mention the accent? Whuh. She thought she could listen to it all day long. The way he rolled his R’s . . .

  ‘‘What are you doing out so early?’’ he asked, then pointed at her waist. ‘‘And what is that thing you wear about you?’’

  Amelia glanced down. ‘‘This is an iPod. It holds over two hundred songs.’’ She unclipped it from her waistband and brought it closer for Ethan to inspect it. ‘‘See here?’’ She pointed at the screen. ‘‘I can scroll through like this and find whichever section of songs I want to listen to, and then I put these things in my ears’’—she did so—‘‘and I’m all set to listen to my favorite tunes for the day.’’

  Ethan bent his dark head over the iPod; then he raised and studied Amelia’s face with just as much interest. He lifted one dark brow. ‘‘In my day, you would already be smolderin’ at the witch’s stake for having such.’’ A grin tugged at his mouth.

  Amelia clipped the iPod back in place. ‘‘If you’re a good little warrior, I’ll let you hold it at twilight. Burn me at the stake?’’ She waved her hand. ‘‘Poof! The iPod goes with me, ashes and all.’’

  Together, they started to walk without really even agreeing to do it. Ethan glanced down at her. ‘‘Then I shall endeavor to keep you far away from the kindling, lass.’’ He kept his eye on her. ‘‘You never said what you were doing out here.’’

  Amelia nodded, savoring his words as she processed them. ‘‘It’s my morning ritual back home. I take an early walk on the beach to get my brain working, get the juices flowing.’’

  He cocked a brow. ‘‘What juices?’’

  Amelia laughed. ‘‘That’s just another term for getting your mind and body in shape, and in my case, my imagination. Plus, I have to walk off all the calories I’d consumed the night before.’’

  Ethan shook his head. ‘‘I vow, I’m lost with more than half of what comes from your mouth, Amelia.’’

  Amelia looked up at him. ‘‘Calories are naughty things inside naughty foods that make you get fat. When you walk, or exercise, you burn the fat in your body.’’

  With a frown, Ethan nodded. ‘‘I think I see, although you must do a vast amount of exercise, for there’s no amount of fat on you.’’

  She laughed. ‘‘You are now my new best friend, Ethan Munro. Maybe one day you can meet my little cousin Jeremy.’’

  Ethan smiled. ‘‘And why would I need to meet him?’’

  ‘‘Because his favorite thing to call me is Aunt Jell-O -Butt."

  Ethan slowed enough for Amelia to walk a few steps ahead, where he boldly gave her rear the once-over.

  ‘‘I’m not verra sure what Jell-O is.’’ He caught up with her and looked at her. ‘‘What is it, by the by?’’

  Amelia couldn’t help it. She laughed. Hard. ‘‘Good God, Munro, you crack me up.’’ She cleared her throat. "Jell-O is something you eat. It’s very jiggly, congealed, wiggles when you poke it with a spoon.’’

  A slow, wicked grin picked up the corners of Ethan’s very sexy mouth. ‘‘I see.’’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘‘Great.’’

  ‘‘Is that why you do that solitary fighting you were doing?’’

  Sidestepping a big rock, Amelia nodded. ‘‘Partly. And it’s a form of martial arts. Tae kwon do, it’s called.’’ She smiled. ‘‘I’m proud to say I’m a fourth-degree black belt.’’ She glanced at him. ‘‘There’re several steps in learning the arts, and you celebrate each step by gaining a different colored belt. Black is the highest level, then you have multilevels of black you must earn.’’

 
Ethan nodded. ‘‘ ’Twas intriguing to watch you. My men have begged me to ask if you’ll teach it to us.’’

  Amelia looked at him, the mist making his enchanted self even more surreal. ‘‘With the big swords you all carry around, why would you need to learn the arts?’’

  His eyes, already intense, stared. ‘‘Why did you?’’

  ‘‘My dad had all of us—my brothers and sisters and I—learn it when we were kids. I just continued on with it. At first, just because my brother did.’’ She smiled. ‘‘I hate when he outdoes me in something. So the more he kept at it, the more I did, too.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘It’s a lot of fun, it’s a great workout, and, well, anyway.’’ She looked up at him. ‘‘That’s really it.’’

  ‘‘Can you use it in battle?’’ he asked.

  Amelia eyed the enormous blade strapped to Ethan’s back. ‘‘As long as the weapons were out of the picture, yes.’’ She grinned. ‘‘I’ll teach you guys tae kwon do if you teach me how to use that.’’ She pointed at his sword.

  Ethan gave a curt nod. ‘‘A fine trade, methinks.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Done.’’

  Before long, they’d walked the parameter of the loch. Amelia glanced at her watch. ‘‘Wow. I’d better shower and get down to the kitchen before Guthrie throws my breakfast out.’’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘‘Thanks for walking with me.’’

  Another short nod. ‘‘Aye, ’twas a fine morn to walk, indeed.’’ He glanced behind her, and for a breadth of a second, his features grew solemn. Just that fast, though, the look vanished. ‘‘I’m sure you realize by now that you shall be at the mercy of the lads during the waking hours.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘So that means I’ll see you at breakfast?’’

  ‘‘Aye. For a certainty.’’ He gave a low bow. ‘‘Until.’’

  Then he vanished.

  At the great hall door, Amelia stopped and glanced over her shoulder. Through the shroud of mist rose the hill, and at its peak, something she did not remember seeing before. A tall, upside down L-shaped sort of object. ‘‘What the heck?’’

  When she blinked, the mist swallowed it up.

  An eerie feeling claimed her then. One that made her shiver clear to the bone.

  Chapter 9

  "You’re taken wi’ her, aye?" Ethan shot Aiden a glare any normal man with half a wit would have backed away from. His cousin, though, was anything but normal.

  ‘‘Your frightful frown says aye, laird,’’ Aiden said. ‘‘Canna say I blame you, though. She’s a fetchin’ lass, to be true.’’

  ‘‘Aiden, shut up.’’ Ethan deepened his glower.

  ‘‘Och, lad,’’ Guthrie said, shuffling his old self about the larder whilst preparing Amelia’s fare, ‘‘be careful with that one. She’s right ornery, I’d say.’’ The old man grinned over his bony old shoulder. ‘‘Unless ye like ’em ornery.’’

  The men chuckled.

  ‘‘How do you like ’em, Guthrie?’’ Tor asked. He steepled his big fingers and sat his chin at the point. ‘‘I beg you, share.’’

  Guthrie chuckled, a wheezy sound of the elderly. ‘‘Oy, I’ll no’ share my secrets of wooing with the lot of you hooligans, that’s for sure.’’ A mischievous glint sparked in the old man’s eye. ‘‘But it’s workin’ for me, by the by.’’

  The laughter boomed throughout the larder, and even Ethan had to join in. That Guthrie was a bleating fool when it came to his women.

  ‘‘What’s so funny?’’

  All heads turned as Amelia walked through the door. As though she’d been living with a castle full of enchanted Highland knights the whole of her life, she walked right over to the long wooden table where his kin sat in various places, moved a trencher filled with fruit, plucked an apple from its mix, scuffed it on her thigh, and took a big bite. Then she slid the trencher over and eased her bottom onto the table. And sat. And chewed.

  Never before had Ethan wanted to be an apple.

  All at once, his kin overtook the lass’s presence. Ethan could do little but stand back, watch, and continue scowling. Not that anyone paid a bit of attention to him or his glowers, although Aiden glanced at him once, winked, and returned his attentions back to Amelia.

  ‘‘Is it true, lass?’’ Gilchrist said. ‘‘Ethan tells us that you’re willin’ to trade a bit of swordplay for a bit of your’’—he glanced at Ethan—‘‘what’d you call it again?’’

  ‘‘Tae kwon do,’’ Ethan said.

  ‘‘Right.’’ Gilchrist grinned. ‘‘What say you, Amelia?’’

  Amelia wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and nodded. ‘‘Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready.’’

  The men all started talking at once.

  ‘‘After I’ve eaten,’’ she added. ‘‘So you guys just simmer down. And’’—she glanced at Ethan, who then had a difficult time keeping the frown affixed to his face—‘‘I do want to hear every detail of what you remember first.’’

  For a handful of moments, her gaze remained fixed to Ethan’s, and even the annoying drone of his kin was lost. He shamelessly watched as she bit into her fruit and chewed, followed her finger as she once again wiped away the juice. One lovely eyebrow lifted, but still she stared. A grin, seen by no one save him, touched the corner of her mouth.

  By the blood of Christ, he wanted fiercely to kiss the girl. Right then and there, in front of his clansmen and that old smilin’ Guthrie.

  And she knew it.

  Damn.

  ‘‘Well go on, then, Ethan,’’ Sorely said, and threw his big self into a straight-backed chair against the larder wall. ‘‘Begin the tale, man, before we all grow weary o’ waitin’.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, and sit right here,’’ Amelia said, patting the very spot across from her seat. ‘‘I don’t want to have to watch you pace and talk while I eat.’’ Guthrie set a trencher of steaming eggs, meat, and porridge before her, and Amelia wasted no time digging in.

  ‘‘You’re no’ verra shy about eatin’, are you, lass?’’ Ethan said, sitting down across from her. ‘‘Most of your ilk would pick about that bit of food and eat as little as warranted.’’

  From two round trenchers, she spooned several heaps of the porridge, and the other, lard. After she stirred the lard into her porridge, she picked up a spoonful, blew, and grinned. "Jell-O-Butt, remember? What can I say? I like to eat. Besides. I grew up with four siblings. I had to practically fight my way to the table.’’

  ‘‘Bluidy hell, what is a Jell-O-Butt?" asked Rob, who’d propped a hip on the table beside Amelia.

  ‘‘Never you mind, pup,’’ Ethan said. ‘‘I’ll never get the tale told if you dunna cease your babbling.’’

  Rob winked at Amelia, thusly ignoring Ethan. ‘‘You’ll give me the meanin’ later, aye?’’ he asked.

  Of course, she grinned right back. ‘‘Absolutely.’’ Eyeing Ethan, she gave a nod. ‘‘Okay, I’m ready.’’

  With a nod and one last lairdly glare at his men, Ethan began. He told the entire tale, beginning from the unwanted nuptials, and ending with him and his kin being overtaken by the heavy mist, and then awaking some time later, mayhap even a century later, in the Munro Keep—run-down, as it was, with a legend so dreadful, no one would claim the tower until well into the twentieth century. He left nothing out—including the finding of Devina’s lifeless body lying on the ground, his family plaid covering her.

  Amelia, who’d steadfastly taken her meal at first, had stopped eating, fork discarded, her chin propped atop one fist as her elbow rested against the table. Even after he’d said his piece, she continued to stare, eyes wide, soaking in everything.

  Finally, she sat back in her chair, leaned back on the hind legs, and swore under her breath. The men laughed, but Ethan kept his gaze trained on hers.

  ‘‘I saw it this morning, after you left,’’ she said. ‘‘In the mist, atop the knoll.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Ethan asked.

  ‘‘The gibbet. At least, I think that’s
what I saw.’’ She held up her hand, and using a forefinger and a thumb, made a shape. ‘‘Like this—sort of an upside down L."

  ‘‘Damn me, aye,’’ said Aiden, who’d taken a seat at the end of the table. ‘‘That’s what you saw, ’tis a certainty. Dunna you think so, Ethan?’’

  Ethan nodded. ‘‘What I canna understand, though, is how?’’ He looked at Amelia. ‘‘Why you? No’ even Guthrie’s ever seen the like.’’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘‘Nope. Never saw a bloody gibbet, I can honestly say.’’ He looked at Amelia and pointed a gnarled finger in her direction. ‘‘You a witch, girlie?’’

  ‘‘She’s no’ a witch, but she can kick your old arse, Guthrie,’’ said Torloch, and the others erupted into laughter. ‘‘You should see the lass fight.’’

  ‘‘Even though she does it alone,’’ added Rob. ‘‘She’s going to teach us, right, Amelia?’’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘‘God help us all.’’

  Somehow, watching Amelia banter with his kin, Ethan held old Guthrie’s exact sentiments.

  ‘‘I can’t explain why I saw the gibbet, nor can I explain why I can see and interact with all of you,’’ Amelia said. ‘‘I’m not asking questions, though.’’ She looked directly at Ethan. ‘‘And I’d like to help you any way I can.’’

  Somehow, Ethan hoped she’d say the like.

  Rising from her seat, Amelia gathered her empty trenchers and took them to the sink. Flipping on the faucet, she rinsed them out and set them to dry on a cloth. ‘‘What I don’t get, though’’—she dried her hands on another cloth and turned around—‘‘is why your wife’s uncle thought you’d killed her, Ethan.’’ She draped the cloth over the dish rack and leaned against the counter, facing him. ‘‘Had something happened in the past to make Daegus think you’d actually kill a woman, much less your own wife, regardless that you hadn’t wanted the marriage in the first place?’’

  The entire larder turned deadly quiet as all eyes turned to Ethan. He’d not meant for Amelia to know such intimacy from his old life, only the facts surrounding Devina’s death. To dig deeper meant fighting demons he’d already fought—many times over. He hated bringing to surface such bad memories, but by the blood of Christ, he had no choice. If she were to truly be able to help them, possibly even break the centuries-long enchantment, then she had to know everything.