Highland Knight

by Cindy Miles

  Ethan stood, an endearing smile making his mouth curve into the cutest grin. He stepped forward, slid his hands over her hips, and pulled her against him. Bending his head, he moved his mouth to her ear. ‘‘Then yew slivers we shall have, Amelia,’’ he whispered. He took her earlobe in his teeth, then kissed her just below it. ‘‘And you’ll have one, as well.’’ He looked at her then, his face in shadows, his voice deep and rich. ‘‘Now cease so much talk and worry over specters and kiss me, woman. Before I fade away.’’

  Amelia needed no further urging. She had a sexy Highlander in a dark passageway, for God’s sake. First thing tomorrow, they’d make a trip out to the gazillion-year-old yew tree, shave some slivers of bark, and everyone would stuff them in their pockets to ward off evil.

  Sounded like a plan to her.

  With a firm but gentle shove, Amelia backed Ethan against the passageway wall, and pressed against him. She wanted to touch him, run her hands over his stomach, which, by the feel of it through the rough-hewn linen plaid he wore, seemed to be quite the washboard. But there didn’t seem to be an easy entrance into that bolt of fabric wound about him. The only way, she figured, was up the hem.

  The thought made her shiver.

  Instead, she moved her hands over the length of his muscled arms, up to his neck, wound her fingers through the magnificent long hair that fit him so well, and pulled his head down until their mouths touched. With her hands she grazed his beard-roughened cheeks, fingered his throat, his very sexy Adam’s apple, and sighed when his hands moved over her hips, then slipped around to her backside and pulled her against him, trapping her between his thighs. She groaned against his mouth, and his lips moved back to her ear.

  ‘‘Have I mentioned today just how much I loathe your rules of wooing?’’ he whispered, his voice gravelly, strained.

  As he pressed into her, all six feet, seven inches of hard, raw male—especially that specific part of him down there, she mentally noted—she cleared her froggy throat. ‘‘I uh, think I can pretty much tell, Ethan,’’ she said, her own voice raspy.

  His hands moved to her head, one on either side, and he lifted her gaze to his. Still pressed against her, he traced her bottom lip, nudged it open, angled her head, and then when it was just the way he wanted it, lowered his mouth and kissed her like a man who had hours to spend on just her lips. Then he pulled back, his eyes hazed with desire, and smiled.

  Just before the twilight ended.

  Later, in the great hall, Amelia shared with the others her idea on the yew bark. Every single warrior had carried it as kids, they’d said, and were willing to do so again.

  ‘‘Guthrie brought those movies you asked for,’’ said Rob, pointing to a stack on top of the DVD player.

  Amelia walked over to the stack, flipped through several, nearly picked Die Hard, and changed her mind.

  There was enough testosterone lingering in the air to supply another World War. She’d watched just about every beat-’em-up, blow-’em-up movie that Hollywood had made. They’d even watched Brave-heart . Now that was an experience all its own, watching a movie about a guy that her guys knew and fought with. They’d roared at some parts—mostly the battle scenes—cursed in others, mumbled in Gaelic during others still. Quite the surreal moment, all in all. During the end, when Wallace suffered during his execution, the men fell silent. Again, a few muttered things in Gaelic, and Amelia thought later she’d ask Ethan what they’d said. She had a feeling it wasn’t very nice, and that it was geared toward Longshanks. Or, as the Munros fondly called him, Wee Wanker.

  Nope, Amelia thought, she’d had quite enough testosterone for one week. They’d watched Abbot and Costello, all the old monster classics, and a few off-the -wall flicks. To see six big guys wearing kilts and broadswords hang on to the edge of their seats while watching little Nemo find his way home was truly a treat.

  Endearing, actually.

  But tonight was chick night. Most guys would balk. She wouldn’t tell them. ‘‘All right, fellas,’’ she said, making her selection. ‘‘You’re going to love this one. I promise. It was the staple of my teenage years.’’ She eyed Ethan. ‘‘You’ll appreciate it.’’

  He quirked a brow.

  And by the time the first dance scene of the movie started, Ethan shot her a look. ‘‘I see where you acquired your skills,’’ he said, referring to the little victory dance he’d caught her doing weeks before.

  So by the time Dirty Dancing wound up, Amelia had six medieval guys all vying for turns to learn the dance steps, of which she, ZuZu, and their other friends had practiced ruthlessly on the front porch of her granny’s plantation house, on a daily basis until they had it down to perfection. Aiden, of course, was the most eager of the warriors.

  She’d be in big trouble if the Munros ever left the twenty-first century.

  And with the music blasting as the credits rolled, Amelia put aside her worries of enchantment, of evil ghosts and good ghosts, and about sending her newfound family back to the past. Especially the very one she was in love with.

  To the hollers and suggestive whistles of the others, Ethan good-naturedly did the best he could to keep up while Amelia showed the Munros just how she’d perfected the naughty dance moves.

  Ethan lowered his head and said, ‘‘We’ll try this at tomorrow’s twilight.’’

  Amelia could hardly wait.

  Chapter 27

  Ethan sat with his back against the wall, across from Amelia’s room, in the passageway. So far, she’d slept soundly.

  He wished he could do the like.

  Earlier that day, they’d all traipsed out to the old yew tree, where Amelia had stripped a long sheath of bark. They’d returned to the keep, she’d sectioned the strip into seven slivers, and when the gloaming arrived, they’d all stuffed a piece into their belts. Amelia had pushed hers into the pocket of her trews. She’d seemed rather satisfied that the friendly ghost, as she called it, had guided her toward something protective.

  He prayed the old lore his grandmother had believed in so heartily had truth to it.

  Leaning his head back, Ethan stared at the darkened rafters and considered. Never had he envisioned an encounter with a soul such as Amelia Landry. She’d entered his home, somewhat fearful yet bold enough to storm forward and brave the darkness. She’d taken their cause and made it hers. By Christ’s blood, she’d believed.

  And he loved her all the more for it.

  And although he knew in his bones an end to their time together drew close, he couldna deny himself the contentment of her company. Even knowing the wobbly and odd state of his existence, Amelia gave freely of herself, and whilst they’d agreed not to voice aloud their endearments to each other, in case the malevolent being took rebuttal, she showed him with every touch, every laugh, every deep, fervent kiss just how much she loved him. Had she no’ spoken a word, or moved her mouth against his, even once, he’d know her heart. Just by looking into those crescent-shaped eyes.

  The thought of giving her up ripped his heart in twain.

  With a hearty sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck and stared at her door. More than once, the thought of begging her to wed him had crossed his mind. Each time, he’d dismissed those thoughts. They were selfish, by the by. Why would a vibrant woman of the modern world want to be strapped to a nearly nonexistent lad who had only an hour each day to physically touch her? He’d been afeared of her answer, so he’d kept his stupid mouth tightly closed and not asked the bluidy question.

  He’d take what he could now and be damned grateful for it.

  All at once, Amelia’s door flung open. ‘‘Ethan!’’

  He jumped up, and in two strides stood in her chamber. She stood at her desk, bent over at the waist, scribbling something on her parchment. ‘‘What is it? Is aught amiss?’’

  ‘‘No! Yes! Just come here!’’

  As he drew closer, he peered at the small of her back, exposed by a barely there tunic that had ridden up. There, just appearing at t
he top of her black trews, which hung loosely at her hips—verra fetching, he thought—was a . . . painting? A painting on her body? How could that be? Bluidy saints, it looked like the tail of a damned lizard—

  Quick as that, she turned and jumped up on her bed, her legs tucked under her bottom. She patted the spot beside her. ‘‘Come here. Sit.’’ She grinned. ‘‘The good ghost just visited me.’’

  Ethan admitted that indeed ’twas passing odd to be visited by a spirit, no matter the demeanor. But by Christ’s robes, whatever lay beneath her trews intrigued him a bit more at present . . .

  ‘‘Ethan, come here!’’

  He blinked, then sat on the bed beside her. Her eyes were ablaze with excitement.

  She waved her parchment. ‘‘I think the friendly ghost has just given me a verse to send you back in time.’’

  Ethan blinked, and his air nearly left his lungs. He narrowed his gaze. ‘‘And why are you so pleased about that?’’

  She grinned. ‘‘Because, if I’m reading the words right, you and the guys will be sent back to wrong a right. But after, everything will be okay.’’

  Ethan quirked a brow. ‘‘That’s what the friendly spirit told you?’’

  With a soft laugh, Amelia shook her head. ‘‘Of course not. But I don’t want to read the words out loud, you know’’—she looked at him, the corners of her outer eyes tipping upward—‘‘before you’re ready to go back. With the others to help you. See?’’

  Ethan nodded. He didn’t see as much as she’d like, though. ‘‘I canna read well, but let me see the missive, lass.’’

  Amelia nodded and held the parchment up for him to see the words. Luckily, ’twere easy enough. Slowly, he read them to himself.

  Once as they were

  ’twill now be again.

  Wrong to right,

  hearts alight.

  Ethan looked up. He scratched his jaw. ‘‘I’m no’ sure where you’re getting that everything will be okay.’’

  Amelia smiled and pointed. ‘‘See this last line?’’

  He did, and nodded. ‘‘Aye, but what’s a blazing heart—’’

  ‘‘Shush!’’ Amelia said, waving her hand at his mouth. ‘‘Don’t say another word.’’ She grinned. ‘‘Just trust me.’’

  Ethan considered. He had no choice but to trust the one person who had not only the sensitivity to see and believe in him and his men, but the courage to give her heart freely to a man not from her time. He nodded. ‘‘Done. Now, what is your strategy?’’

  She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. ‘‘Tonight, at the yew tree, during the gloaming hour.’’ She smiled. ‘‘All of us.’’

  Ethan sighed. ‘‘Verra well, Amelia. We’ll do it.’’ He then remembered the paint. ‘‘What’s that painted lizard’s tail poking from the top of your trews?’’ he said, pointing to her bottom. ‘‘Just there?’’

  Suddenly, she laughed. ‘‘That’s the result of a wild twenty-fifth birthday.’’ She raised one lovely eyebrow. ‘‘Can’t see it, though.’’

  Ethan sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘‘Dunna tell me. One of your blasted wooing rules, aye?’’

  She laughed, and he wondered if he’d ever convince her to change her code of chivalry.

  As she sat there, a naughty look upon her lovely face, he highly doubted it.

  Her lips moved, then, but her voice didna speak. He leaned in close. ‘‘Aye? I didna hear you.’’

  She shook her head, pointed at her lips, and mouthed three words that made him swallow a bluidy lump in his throat.

  I love you, she mouthed silently, then shyly bit her lip, grinned, and looked down at the parchment.

  Ethan stared at the woman he loved, unable to touch her, unable to haul her onto his lap and kiss her soundly, or better yet, lay her down atop her bedcovers and love her in truth, until they both gasped for air.

  Amelia Landry. A woman born centuries after he should have been dead. Yet they sat together on the same bed.

  A miracle, he thought. And when she glanced back up at him and smiled, his heart ached with more love than he ever thought imaginable.

  He prayed then that he could keep her forever.

  ‘‘Come on, guys, get a move on,’’ Amelia said, later that evening. She fingered the slivers of yew bark in her hand. She’d cut the slivers earlier that day, but had to wait until the gloaming to give a piece to each warrior. ‘‘Chop-chop. It’s almost twilight.’’

  Torloch walked beside her, and Ethan on the other. Tor glanced down at her and frowned. ‘‘What the bluidy hell does chop-chop mean, by the by?’’

  Amelia smiled. ‘‘It means hurry your sorry arse up, that’s what.’’

  The guys chuckled.

  ‘‘Ah,’’ Tor said with a grin. ‘‘That I get.’’

  ‘‘You look unnerved,’’ Ethan said, close to her ear.

  She looked first at him, then the other warriors trudging across the meadow with her. Guthrie walked in the back, a bit slower with his limp. Rob stayed beside him. ‘‘I suppose I am a little nervous,’’ she said. ‘‘The forest is sort of dark and scary this time of evening.’’

  ‘‘Did you bring your big flashlight?’’ Aiden asked. ‘‘If things work as you hope, you and old Guthrie will be heading back to the keep alone.’’

  Yet another thing that had her on edge.

  ‘‘Are you having second thoughts, Amelia?’’

  She glanced at Ethan’s face, darkened from the gloam’s light. ‘‘Of course I am. My stomach is full of butterflies and I’m scared I’ll never see you again.’’ Tears suddenly stung her eyes, and she felt glad for the twilight’s bizarre glow. She didn’t want them to see her cry.

  But she might do just that.

  ‘‘Amelia,’’ Ethan said. ‘‘Dunna think that way.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘You’re right. Besides, if this is going where I think it’s going, you’ll be able to save a life— one that didn’t deserve to be taken away.’’ She smiled, although she thought it came across weak and paltry. ‘‘That’s what counts.’’

  They continued across the meadow, to the dark edge of the forest. Once there, the light that filtered through the canopy of trees still shone bright enough that a flashlight wasn’t needed yet. They all walked in quietly and started down the path to the old yew tree.

  At first the sounds of the approaching night soothed Amelia. The rush of the burn in the distance, the pine martins tweeting in the treetops, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves above; they were familiar sounds, and she now thought of them as home.

  Then the wind picked up.

  Not so fierce at first, but the closer they got to the yew, the stronger the wind became. It didn’t effect the guys, other than Guthrie, but they knew what caused the upwind.

  Amelia’s pace quickened. ‘‘Let’s hurry, Ethan,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m not in the mood for any more hail.’’

  ‘‘I’m right here,’’ he said, and he was, walking as close as he could without melding into her. ‘‘The hour is almost here, Amelia. ’Twill be fine.’’

  Without another word, they all power walked (they didn’t swing their arms, though) until the gnarled trunk of the yew tree came into view. Once there, they stood in a circle, Ethan standing close to Amelia.

  ‘‘Why did we have to come here to read the verse?’’ asked Rob. ‘‘Wouldn’t anywhere have been just as fine?’’

  Gilchrist punched his arm. ‘‘The old yew is protective, witless,’’ he said. ‘‘ ’Tis the best place, by the by.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ Rob said.

  ‘‘So this is the bad spirit’s doin’s, aye?’’ asked Aiden. ‘‘A lot of wind?’’

  The wind picked up even more.

  ‘‘Och, damn,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll keep me mouth shut.’’

  Then the twilight came, and Ethan immediately pulled Amelia into his arms. He pressed his lips to her temple and kept them there for several comforting seconds. The warmth of his body, the fierce stre
ngth in his arms as he held her settled her, made her feel safe. ‘‘ ’Twill be fine, lass. Dunna worry.’’

  She looked up. ‘‘That’s a tall order, handsome, but I’ll try.’’ Quickly, she handed each warrior a sliver of yew bark. ‘‘Put these somewhere safe, so they don’t fall out and blow away.’’

  They each did just that.

  Guthrie stood back a ways, leaning on a walking stick. ‘‘Do ye need any help, lass?’’

  ‘‘No, that’s okay, thanks.’’ Amelia fished the piece of paper with the verse on it out of her jeans pocket. She unfolded it, looked at it, and then looked at the guys.

  And emotions overwhelmed her.

  Dear Jesus, what if she never saw any of them again?

  She took a deep breath. This had to be done. Not only could their enchantment be broken, and they could live out normal lives, an innocent life could be saved.

  Another deep breath, and she did the one thing she knew she’d be very, very bad at.

  She said her good-byes.

  One by one, she put her arms around each of the Munro warriors and hugged them tightly. She felt just like Dorothy leaving Oz, and saying her good-byes to the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion.

  She held it together until she wrapped her arms around Aiden’s neck. He hugged her fiercely and whispered in her ear, ‘‘ ’Tis a kiss I’ll never forget, Amelia Landry.’’ He pulled back, and right in front of Ethan, kissed her square on the mouth. He smiled, then, and wiggled his brows. ‘‘Dunna worry, lass. I’ll be seeing you.’’

  With a deep breath, and then one more to steady herself, Amelia turned to Ethan. His arms came around her, encircled her, and he buried his face in her neck. ‘‘When did this become farewell?’’ he whispered.

  The wind picked up fiercely then, leaves kicked about and scattered. She held on to Ethan tightly. ‘‘I know this is the right thing to do.’’ She moved her mouth to his ear. ‘‘But I’m scared.’’

  He pulled back and looked down at her. The wind whipped his hair about his face, and a long strand caught on his lip. His jaw flexed, and his eyes gleamed silver in the twilight. He looked every bit the fierce Highland warrior that he was.