Highland Knight

by Cindy Miles

Ethan led her down a different path, one that disappeared into another part of the forest—one she’d missed earlier. In the distance, the sound of rushing water hummed. Something else she’d missed.

  The woods grew dense, the path little more than a footpath but obviously well traveled. Birds chirped overhead, and Amelia pulled closer to Ethan’s side.

  Somehow, the ridiculous urge to holler, Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my! came over her, but she held it in.

  ‘‘You’re no’ frightened, are you, storyteller?’’ Ethan asked, a chuckle in his voice. ‘‘Ye who purposefully beds with spirits?’’

  ‘‘Well, it is kind of dark in here,’’ Amelia said. ‘‘Where are we going, anyway?’’

  With a gentle tug, Ethan maneuvered her in front of him, and their bodies brushed close in the exchange. Once in front, he placed his hands on her hips, crowding in behind her, and whispered against her ear, ‘‘Close your eyes and walk.’’

  Amelia sighed and did so, and moved her hands to rest on his. His warm breath against the sensitive part below her ear made her want to just fall against him, but he had a purpose, and she was quite determined to find out what it was. They walked, and she picked her footing with care.

  Ethan’s mouth again was at her ear. ‘‘Now stop, Amelia, but keep your eyes closed. And listen.’’

  He slid her hair to one side, and his lips settled against her neck. ‘‘What do you hear, lass?’’

  Chapter 16

  "Um," Amelia said, her voice cracking just a wee bit. "I, uh, can’t hear anything with your mouth on my neck.’’

  Ethan smiled. Damn, he did a lot of that lately. How could he help it? Amelia Landry was by far the most charming lass he’d ever known.

  No’ to mention the most beguiling. He used full restraint, just to keep from pawing her like some starved creature.

  Mayhap, he was one.

  Ethan scraped his chin against the verra soft skin of Amelia’s neck, and then pulled back, just a bit, else he’d no’ be able to control himself.

  That kiss earlier had seared him to the very bone.

  It’d left him wanting more. He knew, though, he couldna have more. Mayhap more kisses, aye. He’d beg for those if he had to. But nothing else. Amelia deserved more than that. Better than him. Her company, and access to her lovely mouth would have to be enough for now.

  ‘‘Keep quiet and listen, girl,’’ he said. ‘‘Closely.’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  She did, and the only noise besides their breathing were the pine martins and insects, and if she strained her ears—

  ‘‘Oh!’’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘‘I hear it! Only . . . what do I hear?’’

  Ethan chuckled, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her against him. The feel of her warm body, the slight shudder of her breath, the roar of her voice vibrating through her back and to his chest made him want to tighten his hold on her and never let her go. Keep her there forever.

  Impossible, he knew, and instead settled for having her here now, in the gloaming, snuggled easily, and he brushed his mouth once more against the soft shell of her ear. He felt her shiver, and he knew he’d treasure the sensation for the rest of his days. ‘‘ ’Tis fairies singing.’’

  Amelia sat still—a miraculous event in itself, he thought—and tilted her head toward the sound. Then she turned to him, that cocksure grin that he found completely endearing, with one corner of her mouth lifting higher than the other, crossing her face. Had they no’ been so close, he’d have never seen it, so cast in shadows were the wood.

  ‘‘You’re full of it, Munro. There’s no such thing as fairies.’’

  He kissed her jaw, and she squirmed. ‘‘You’re being savored by an enchanted fouteenth-century man and you say there are no fairies, aye?’’

  She made some sort of sighing noise, and Ethan smiled. ‘‘Come, lass, I’ll show you.’’

  They walked through the thicket, up a slight rocky incline, where the sound of water grew louder. The wood cleared, allowing a bit of light within, and Amelia gasped.

  ‘‘Oh, wow.’’ She stared a moment, then turned back to him. ‘‘How beautiful.’’

  Pride leaped up from within at Amelia’s pleasure of his home. ‘‘ ’Tis a bhùirn.’’ He glanced at her. ‘‘Fresh water, moving fast.’’

  ‘‘Burn,’’ she said, repeating the Gaelic word. He rather liked the way his language sounded on her tongue. ‘‘What is that sound? You know, it actually does sound like high-pitched singing.’’

  Moving her over to the flat rock, near the edge, he held her elbow whilst she found her balance, sat, and he climbed down beside her. ‘‘ ’Tis the water slipping fast over the reeds and grass.’’ He smiled. ‘‘My mother used to bring me and my brothers and sister here, and we sat upon this verra rock and listened to the fairies.’’ She turned her face, partially cast in shadow, toward him as he continued. ‘‘Being the little devil that she was, she’d also bring a handful of rowan berries, or stones. When we werena lookin’, she’d toss them into the burn and yell in a hushed whisper, ‘See you there, children! ’Tis the fairies after all.’ ’’

  Amelia smiled at him. ‘‘I can’t believe I’m sitting on a rock that you sat on when you were a little boy.’’ She shook her head and looked out across the water, and the first raindrops began to fall. ‘‘Your mother sounds great. I bet you miss them all.’’ She lifted his hand and held it.

  ‘‘Aye, to the point of ache, at times. To have lived so many years.’’ He looked at her then. ‘‘Lifetimes, Amelia. I’ve lived scores of lifetimes, but ’tis only been one for me. A big, long, never-ending lifetime. An unfulfilled one at that.’’ He looked at her. ‘‘Until you.’’

  The waning glow from the gloaming shone in her upturned eyes, and they looked like two jewels. Glancing down, she traced the hard calluses of his palm, across the curve in his hand. She picked the other one up and did the same. ‘‘From your sword?’’

  He stared at her, thinking just how soft her fingers felt sliding across his roughened hands. ‘‘Aye.’’

  ‘‘Funny. I never thought of both hands being used.’’

  He grinned. ‘‘Big sword.’’

  She looked up at him, the usual mirth gone. ‘‘I didn’t expect any of this, you know?’’ Her gaze lowered. ‘‘Definitely didn’t expect you, that’s for sure.’’

  Ethan grasped her by the chin and lifted, forcing her gaze back to his. ‘‘Nor I, Amelia. And I’ve thanked God and the saints over and over for sending you here.’’ He wanted to say to him, but didna feel he could claim that right.

  And he had no bluidy idea how long he’d get to keep her, either. I’ll take what I can get . . .

  ‘‘You’ve missed your supper, you know,’’ Amelia said, threading her fingers through his. ‘‘You’re gonna be hungry.’’

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘‘Some hungers can be ignored, in truth.’’ He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of her hair. ‘‘Others canna be ignored at all.’’ He let his gaze move over her, the gown with wee white flowers, the womanly shape of her throat, and by the blood of—

  ‘‘You’re ogling again,’’ she said. Her voice was naught but a hoarse whisper. ‘‘I think I like it.’’

  He grinned at her.

  ‘‘But time’s almost up, and frankly, I’d rather make out—’’

  Ethan leaned over and covered her mouth with his, and she sighed against him. Her lips moved with his, gentle at first, tasting with her tongue. Her hand crept up to his face, found the scar beneath his eye, traced it, then lowered her fingers to the junction where their mouths met, and Ethan thought his heart would burst from its cage. He cupped her cheek and tilted her head just so, and he was lost in the sensation of her kiss, of the stirring she caused that had been dormant for centuries, and it was then that the rain began to fall heavy upon them, splattering against their faces, soaking their hair, yet they didn’t stop. Amelia moved closer, leaned in to him, and th
e groan she made low in her throat all but drove Ethan over the edge.

  And just that fast, the twilight hour ended.

  Amelia pitched forward as he lost substance, but she caught herself with both hands on the flat rock.

  She cursed under her breath, and then gave a charming, apologetic smile. ‘‘Sorry.’’

  He laughed, but it wasna a true laugh. ‘‘Trust me, lass.’’ He stood to move out of her way, although she’d be able to pass right through him, as it were. ‘‘You’re no sorrier than I, I’ll warrant. Although ’tis vastly amusing to hear someone so beautiful speak in such a foul manner.’’

  She scooted her feet beneath her bottom and stood, brushing off the seat of her gown. In the waning light, he saw the whites of her teeth as she smiled. ‘‘Keep calling me beautiful and I’ll swear all you like.’’

  This time, he did laugh. ‘‘Come, you witty bard, let’s get out of the gloom before you canna see two paces before you.’’

  Back under the canopy of trees, where the rain couldna reach Amelia, they started a slow return out of the forest. Whilst he and Amelia walked close, they each kept their hands engaged; he clasped his tightly behind his back, she wrapped hers about her own waist.

  He sorely wished it could be different.

  And mayhap, if Amelia was awarded an audience by the spirits in his hall, things could be different.

  If only.

  ‘‘Please tell me where a medieval guy learns to kiss like that,’’ Amelia asked in her usual bold way. ‘‘Is there a School of Toe-Curling you attended?’’

  He grinned. ‘‘If I did, you must have found the same school in the twenty-first century.’’

  Amelia laughed at that. ‘‘Hardly.’’ She looked at him. ‘‘You must have brought it out of me.’’

  Ethan shook his head. ‘‘Indeed, lass, you are a jester.’’ He looked at her. ‘‘I rather like that about you.’’

  With a gusty sigh, she picked her way through the dense wood.

  Earlier, he’d physically helped her manage. Now he was little more than a bluidy ghost . . .

  ‘‘Stop it, Ethan,’’ she said. ‘‘I can look at your face and tell you’re thinking pouty thoughts.’’

  He shifted his sword. ‘‘I’m no’ thinking pouty thoughts.’’

  ‘‘Yes, you are,’’ she said, stopping at the junction of the footpath. ‘‘We’ve tomorrow at twilight, right?’’

  He smiled. How could he not? ‘‘Aye.’’

  ‘‘Good. I think we both need some toe-curling experience. ’’ She grinned at him. ‘‘You know? To get good at it?’’

  He laughed, and the sound carried through the trees. ‘‘I wholeheartedly agree, although the lads will begin to get a wee bit jealous, methinks.’’

  ‘‘Pah,’’ she said, staring down the north path. ‘‘Lads, schmads. They’ll get over it.’’ She smiled. ‘‘Especially once I carry out my surprise.’’ She pointed. ‘‘What’s down there?’’

  Ethan looked. ‘‘Eventually, the border to Munro land. Otherwise, just more trees and such, along with the aged yew. I’ll take you to see it tomorrow, lass. Now, what surprise?’’

  ‘‘Oh, you’ll see,’’ she said, lifting her brows in that jesting way that let Ethan know she was up to no good. ‘‘It’s a secret, buddy, and I can keep a secret longer than anyone. I perfected the craft as a kid.’’

  ‘‘Why do I have verra little trouble believing that?’’

  Amelia laughed. Ethan rather liked the sound.

  They continued to walk until the keep came into view. The rain had slowed, but by the overhead still lingering, the gist of the storm hadna hit yet. They’d made it to the meadow before the rain picked up.

  ‘‘You know something,’’ she said, seemingly uncaring whether the rain pelted her or not. ‘‘It might be a good thing, your substance lasting only an hour.’’

  Ethan glanced down. ‘‘And why is that?’’

  The rain began to fall heavier, and Ethan noticed that Amelia looked even more fetching soaked by a Highland storm than she did perfectly dry.

  She laughed and tucked her wet hair behind both ears, exposing the fine cut of her jaw and smooth skin of her damp face. ‘‘Because there’s no way I’d ever get any work done if I had you in the flesh all day long.’’

  Ethan gave her a grin. ‘‘Toe-curling?’’

  ‘‘Aye,’’ she said, mocking his accent and doing a fine job of it. ‘‘Definitely toe-curling.’’

  Together they laughed, and only later would Ethan tuck away the moment as one of the most cherished of his entire life—live or enchanted.

  Because deep down he knew what they’d found could never last, and that the summer would eventually draw to an end.

  And Amelia Landry would return to her bard’s life . . . elsewhere.

  Chapter 17

  A week went by before any more woo-woo stuff happened. And, as always, it happened when Amelia was alone.

  Funny, too, that. Every night before she’d gone to bed she’d made a routine of calling out to the spirits. Sure, she sounded like a dork, but hey, she’d been visited by the ghost lady and Mr. Freeze. They’d come to her willingly. So why not give a shout-out?

  First, she’d stood in the bathroom, staring into the mirror. She’d even reenacted the old pick-up-the-thing -from-the-floor just to see if, when she rose, the face would be staring at her again. Not once did it happen. It frustrated Amelia to no end, because she hadn’t asked for it to happen in the first place, and then when she’d wanted it to happen, nothing. Nada. Zip. No wispy smoke, no apparition, no spine tingles.

  Not even a good hair raising.

  Dangit.

  Next, she’d brought a few extra candles from the kitchen to her bedroom and had sort of a little mini séance on her floor. She wasn’t a medium by any means, but she’d watched her fair share of Ghost Hunters, so she sort of got the gist of it. Or so she thought.

  Nothing but a few chuckles had she stirred from the other side, and she didn’t mean the Other Side. She meant from the other side . . . of the wall, and the chuckles had come from six big, medieval warriors who thought she and her antics highly amusing. But again, nothing happened.

  Until now.

  The one morning she decided to take another walk in the forest alone, it happened. Ethan had already taken her down the north path a few times, toward the border of Munro land, and had shown her the old yew tree. She stood in front of it now. Older even than the one he’d shown her before—the one at the end of the meadow where he’d gotten his butt whipped by his dad for chucking sticks at the vicar.

  Now, that tree had to be close to a thousand years old if Ethan and Aiden had climbed in it as boys. They’d thought of it as old then.

  This yew, though. Sheesh. It was older than Jesus, and when she’d said that out loud, Ethan had bent over at the waist and laughed. Reputed to be nearly two thousand years old, it actually sat only partially on the Munro border, with the biggest, thickest, gnarliest trunk, probably at least twelve feet around.

  And it was whispering to her.

  Only, the words were garbled and so low Amelia had a difficult time understanding. She stood at the base of the tree and looked up, wondering if, for a second, the whispering could be the sound of the leaves rustling. She cocked an ear, and when that didn’t help, she leaned over and pressed an ear to the trunk. Finally the unintelligible whispering stopped, and the words became clear.

  ‘‘Break the ssspell,’’ she heard. ‘‘They must go back . . .’’

  Amelia stood there with her ear pressed to the ancient bark for what seemed like forever. Not another word followed. Even when she knocked on the trunk and said, ‘‘Hello? Excuse me? Are you still there?’’ Nothing happened.

  She’d been given a message, and that was that.

  All at once, the forest grew darker, as if what small amount of light filtering through the thick canopy of trees disappeared behind thick black clouds. The whispers grew in numbe
rs, low voiced at first, then getting louder, but at the same time, hushed, as though twenty people were speaking all at once, fighting for airtime and all wanting to be heard—but not by her. Amelia understood none of it.

  And this time, it wasn’t coming from the old yew tree. It was coming from all around.

  There went those darn hairs on her neck again.

  As she hurried fast from the forest, not so much scared, but freaked out, the whispering grew angry, but luckily, stayed behind her. And once she cleared the wood and stepped out into the meadow, the sounds altogether stopped.

  All except for a single ominous laugh.

  Amelia stopped and looked back. While she saw nothing out of the ordinary, she felt a chill, in the dead of a midsummer morning, that reached clear to her bones. The same kind of coldness she’d experienced in her bedroom that one night.

  So she definitely had two different spirits at work here. A nice one, and a not-so-nice one. Good cop, bad cop. One trying to tell her something, the other trying to keep her from it.

  She continued to stare at the primeval forest, the very one where little Ethan Munro and his bratty cousin Aiden used to play and pull their shenanigans, where the lady Munro had taken her children to hear the singing fairies.

  Looking at it now, not one thing seemed out of the ordinary.

  But Amelia knew better.

  She turned and made her way back to the keep. Her stomach had started growling nearly an hour before, so she was more than ready to grab some breakfast, find Ethan, tell him about the whispers, and then continue where they’d left off the day before with the character charts.

  So far, she’d learned a great deal about Ethan Munro.

  Not to mention it gave her plenty of opportunity to just sit and stare at him, talk to him, and wait with high anticipation for the fall of each night’s twilight.

  Amelia grew fonder of the warrior as each day passed. All of them, actually—they really were great guys. But Ethan in particular.

  It scared her a little.

  Actually, more than a little. If she allowed her mind to wander and worry, all sorts of reasons not to become so attached to Ethan would crowd her mind. Some of those reasons were born of pure insecurities on her part—insecurities of the regular sort, like, What if Ethan just stopped liking her, after she’d already fallen for him? Or the more sensible big red flag, How would a relationship ever work out between a mortal and an enchanted soul—one who never dies . . . ?