by Cindy Miles
Standing, Amelia walked over to the small window and leaned on the sill, staring out into the late Highland evening. She’d changed rooms, having found one on the top floor with a window. Breathing in the crisp, autumn air, she watched the light of an early moon glare off the loch’s black surface.
When Ethan wasn’t busy entertaining her father, or charming her mom and granny, he spent every waking moment with Amelia. They’d had a lot to discuss, she and her medieval warrior. At the base of the ancient yew tree, they’d sat, and Ethan had told Amelia everything that had happened, and she’d shared with him everything she had witnessed, as well. Overwhelming, the sharing of that info.
Ethan’s sister had stumbled upon Marynth and Devina in a heated argument—apparently over Ethan. Marynth had confessed to having loved Ethan ever since childhood, and accused Devina of stealing him away. Never, though, had anyone suspected Marynth of the black arts, much less murder. She’d been responsible for all the deaths of any young maid Ethan had showed an interest in, yet Marynth had loved Ethan and his men firercely. She’d made sure the murder appeared to have been committed by Ethan, and then set the beloved Munros within an enchantment, planning to return later and set them free, and to claim Ethan as her own. Marynth hadn’t planned on Ethan’s little sister to take revenge and kill her. The sliver of yew in the warrior’s trews had protected them from the enchantment. Amelia was ever so glad for it.
And poor Guthrie. Because of the yew slivers, the men had not remained at the tower throughout the centuries—not for a second time, anyway. Guthrie had been oblivious to their existence, and since Amelia had come back to the present a bit early, the old curator hadn’t remembered her, either. But once Ethan and his men came to the present, it’d taken old Guthrie more than a little time to adjust to their strange situation. Thankfully he had, though, and was quite excited to be part of it.
Ethan had choked while telling Amelia the story of the good-byes to his family, mostly done in the shade of darkness, alone. He’d returned the lairdship to his sire, who in turn would train his younger brother for his duties. Ethan had gathered what he could; they all had, and brought what meager means they had to the future.
Those meager means had been several gold coins each, which would bring a small fortune if sold to a dealer. Ethan, of course, was worried over how he’d care for his wife and kin once the coin ran out. Amelia had assured him with a few kisses that it would all work out fine. She’d bought the dreaded keep of the Bluidy Munro for rather cheap, she thought, and it wouldn’t change owners again, if left up to her. Ethan was smart, quick, and she had no doubt he’d find his niche in the future. As would all the Munro warriors.
‘‘My God, let me look at you.’’
Amelia turned from her reverie at the window and smiled at her dad. She straightened and did a full turn. ‘‘Well? Do I pass inspection?’’
A wistful smile touched her father’s mouth. ‘‘You look as beautiful as your mom did on our wedding day.’’
Amelia smiled and raised her brow. ‘‘Mom had a bouffant, Dad.’’ She held her hand several inches above her head. ‘‘Hair stacked up to here.’’
Her father grinned. ‘‘I know. Sexy, she was. Just plain sexy.’’
Amelia laughed, and threw her arms around her dad’s neck.
He chuckled and kissed her head. ‘‘You’re happy, aren’t you, sweetheart?’’
Amelia pulled back and grinned. ‘‘What do you think?’’
John chuckled. ‘‘Ethan’s a fine boy. I like him.’’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘‘Good. I do, too.’’
They laughed, and her dad held out his arm. ‘‘Ready?’’
Amelia grasped his elbow and gave a nod. ‘‘Absolutely. By the way,’’ she said, ‘‘nice tux.’’
John Landry grinned and gave her a tug. ‘‘Come on, you.’’
With a deep breath, Amelia fell into step with her dad. Down the dim passageway they went, and butterflies—the sweet ones—fluttered inside Amelia’s stomach. Somewhere down below, a flute played the most whimsical, sweet tune she’d ever heard. Definitely medieval.
When they reached the stairs, Amelia looked out over the great hall. Lit only by candle and torchlight, the soft, wavering yellow glow gave a romantic feel. Tea lights lined the path she’d walk to the makeshift altar at the hearth, and bows of Scots pine covered every surface in the hall, the smell strong and crisp. Once they reached the bottom steps, Amelia lost her breath. The Munro guys, all dressed in their fresh-scrubbed plaids, complete with swords strapped to their backs, stood tall and ridiculously handsome on one side of the tea lights. On the other, the Landrys. ZuZu, Maggie, and Erin all wore pale rose-colored gowns, empire waisted with a white lace overlay. Simply gorgeous, her sisters and best friend. Her mom and granny wore burnished gold gowns, not alike in cut but similar in color. They were adorable.
Her brothers, like their father, wore black tuxes. Good-looking devils, all of them. Even old Guthrie had fancied up for the occasion, and wore his own dress kilt, his knobby and bowed knees knocking beneath the linen.
Her granny’s eyes had twinkled at that.
Then, the vicar, who stood at the front with his back to Amelia, stepped aside and faced the small crowd. Ethan stood tall, his hair down and partially pulled back, his plaid buckled, cinched, and in place.
He took her breath away.
As the flute changed tunes, Amelia and her father started across the hall, down the little aisle of tea lights, and with her heart pounding, she met her future husband at the altar.
Ethan tried to breathe a normal breath, but by all the bluidy saints in heaven, he couldna. It hitched in his throat, and he tried to clear it once, but even that didna work. Mayhap, he thought, it’d be that way for eternity.
His bride was just that fetching.
Nay, he thought, watching her as she crossed the hall with her sire. Fetching was Amelia wearing those short trews and strange little slippers that slid between her big toes and flip-flopped against her heel when she walked. Fetching was Amelia in a sundress pulled taut against her breasts, wearing a pair of high rubber wellies, which she was wont to do when they hill walked.
Ethan drank in the sight of his Amelia wearing a straight, simple shift of satin, sleeveless, with a low neckline, and like her sundress, pulled snug beneath her breasts by a slender sash of Munro plaid. Her hair, that glorious fair, streaked mass, had been piled high on her head, although several long hanks had escaped and now framed her face. Another slender strip of Munro plaid adorned her throat like a choker, with a small red gem dangling from the center, and like gems hung from her lobes.
His soon-to-be wife was beautiful, and she took his breath away.
Finally, her sire delivered her safely to him, and placed Amelia’s hand in Ethan’s.
‘‘She’s yours now, son,’’ John Landry said.
Ethan gave a nod, and then drew Amelia close. ‘‘I know,’’ he whispered to her, and she blushed.
The vicar said his piece, and blessedly, he did so with haste. He turned to Ethan, gave a nod, and Ethan cleared his throat and looked into his beloved’s eyes.
‘‘Dunna matter the century, I shall keep you safe and love you binding, mo grádh.’’ He stared at her hard and deep, grasped her left hand with his right, and bound a slip of Munro plaid, complete with a sliver of yew, around their wrists. ‘‘Go síoraí.’’
Somewhere behind them, he heard several female sniffles. He couldna blame them. He felt like doing the like himself.
Amelia looked into his eyes, those wondrous, odd-shaped pools of silver luminous in the shimmering light of the torches. She picked up the end of the strip of plaid, and smiled. ‘‘No matter where you go, I’ll follow, mo grádh,’’ she said, her voice shaky ‘‘Go síoraí.’’ And she completed the binding of their wrists, leaving each one hand free.
‘‘Aye, ’tis done,’’ said the vicar. ‘‘Go and be one.’’
Ethan looked at his wif
e, slid his free hand around her neck, and pulled her close. Against her lips, he whispered, ‘‘My thoughts exactly, vicar,’’ and then wiggled his brows and lowered his mouth. He felt her smile there, with their lips pressed together, and amid the whistles and shouts, they shared their first kiss as man and wife.
’Twould be the first of many, by the by.
Then their loved ones crowded around, hearty slaps on the back from Munros and Landrys alike, and sweet hugs from the new females of their unioned clan.
Soon tables were laden with food, catered in, Amelia had said, along with wine and lager and some fruity stuff in a large bowl. Amelia had said it was punch. Ethan didna get it, but ’twas tasty, after all.
ZuZu came over, gave Ethan a hug, and then kissed his bride on the cheek. ‘‘Everything was just beautiful. I’m so happy for you two.’’
Amelia smiled, and Ethan thought she’d never looked more radiant. ‘‘You did a wonderful job, Zu. A fairy-tale wedding I’ll remember until I’m old and gray.’’ She cocked her head in that enchanting way she had when puzzled. ‘‘How did you find a flute player?’’
ZuZu lifted a brow. ‘‘I didn’t hire a flute player.’’
Ethan and Amelia shared a knowing look. Indeed, he knew someone who played the flute like an angel.
Devina.
And with that, the music started up, and merriment was had by all. He dirty danced, to the delight of the crowd, with Granny Dona, who could move quite well for her aged years.
The twins, Maggie and Erin, and ZuZu taught his kin something rather odd called the Robot. ’Twas vastly amusing, truth be told, especially seeing big Tor wrestle the moves, but they were having a pleasurable time, laughing, doing the Robot. Dirty dancing. Shaking their booties, so Amelia had said.
His new father- and mother-in-law danced happily, bumping their hips and swinging each other about by the arm. He rather liked the idea that they were still so much in love and didna mind letting others know it. He planned to do the like with their daughter.
He planned to start verra soon.
As in now.
‘‘Come, love,’’ Ethan whispered, when the others were busy with their merriment. ‘‘I’ve somewhere to take you.’’
Amelia looked into his eyes and grinned. ‘‘Thought you’d never ask.’’
With that, they eased out the front door, first him, then moments later, Amelia.
He’d promised the twins, Seth and Sean, lessons in swordplay to make sure no one followed.
Ethan felt assured they’d oblige.
He met his wife under the stars, and wrapped a plaid about her shoulders. ‘‘Come on, love. Hurry.’’
And they did.
‘‘Where on earth are we going, Ethan?’’
Ethan glanced down at her, the slice of moon giving off just enough glow to light their path, and to show the glimmer of mischief in her husband’s eyes.
That wasn’t the only thing glimmering there, either.
‘‘ ’Tis a surprise, wife.’’
And darn it, he could keep a surprise to the end. Finally, they made it to the wood line and entered the forest. Amelia’s breath frosted in front of her, but it wasn’t freezing cold out. Beneath the wool plaid Ethan had wrapped her in, it stayed toasty warm. Having Ethan’s big body pulled close probably helped, too.
Finally, with the moonlight filtering in through the canopy of pines and birch overhead, Ethan led her to his surprise.
She gave a little gasp. ‘‘Ethan! You devil!’’
‘‘Your brothers helped.’’
On the massive flat rock, several thick blankets were piled high and spread about, pillows set here and there, and big, thick, unlit candles encircled the rock. Below, the burn rushed over stone and hurried into the darkness. Off to one side, a long box covered with another plaid, and a smaller box atop it.
Amelia looked at him. ‘‘You’ve been busy, laird.’’
He didn’t answer. His eyes settled over her, and he grasped her by the hand and pulled her onto their makeshift bed. Amelia’s heart skipped a beat when he said, ‘‘Take off your slippers.’’
She did, and scooted them off to the side.
Ethan knelt, pulled a lighter from his belt, and lit each candle, one by one. When he was finished, he kicked off his boots and socks and tossed them aside. Without a word, he unlatched the leather scabbard at his waist and slid the whole thing, sword and all, off his shoulder and propped it against the long covered box. Then he took the plaid wrap she wore and eased it from her shoulders, leaving it to pool at their feet.
With a gentleness that stunned her, Ethan took her hands in his, rubbed his calloused thumbs over her knuckles, and brought them to his mouth, where he pressed his lips to them. His eyes bored into hers, so deep she felt it to the bone. ‘‘You make it passing hard to breathe, Amelia,’’ he said. He lowered her hands and left them at her sides.
And then with both of his large hands, he held her head still, tilted it back and to the side, and with one hand traced her lips with his thumb, tugged her lips open, and lowered his head.
He kissed her then, slowly dragging his mouth across hers, and the sensation of the movement gave her shivers, made her hungry. He tasted her deeply, and she kissed him back, sliding her own hand between their bodies and touching his mouth as it moved, sensual and possessive against hers. He groaned when she did it, and moved his hand to the small of her back, over her bottom, and pulled her against him. His other hand loosened her hair, bound together by a few pins that he found and discarded, threading his fingers through and pulling her head to the angle he desired.
Amelia gave Ethan free reign, every hungry touch she anxiously awaited, and when he found the zipper at the back of her dress, he pinched the small metal piece between his fingers, eased his mouth to her ear, and whispered, ‘‘Do I just pull?’’
‘‘Uh-huh,’’ Amelia managed, desire making her body tingle, so fierce she wanted to crawl inside him.
Slowly, Ethan eased the zipper, and cool air brushed her bare back, and then he slipped his hands inside the gown, bringing warmth, caressing her ribs, her back, over the silk of her panties. He lowered his head and nuzzled her neck. ‘‘Christ, Amelia,’’ he managed, and took his time exploring her skin with his rough hands. The sensation of those calluses, caused by gripping a sword for more than half his life, against her skin made her tremble, then reach for his belt.
‘‘Ethan, help me.’’
He did, and soon the belt went flying through the air.
Taking her hands in his, Ethan lifted her fingers to the brooch at his shoulder. ‘‘Unclasp it,’’ he said, ‘‘like so.’’
He helped her, and the plaid fell from his shoulder, exposing a chest cut from solid rock. She dragged her hands over each hard line and plane, and then pushed the material lower, over his abdomen, tracing the muscles etched there.
As Ethan slipped Amelia’s gown from her shoulders, over her breasts, she pushed his plaid over his hips.
Quickly solving the whole what do they wear under those things? mystery. Indeed.
His hands followed the satin material of her gown down her body, and as those calloused palms closed over her breasts, he released a sigh that shook her to her soul. He whispered something in Gaelic, and hoped she’d remember to ask him what it meant later. All she wanted now was to feel.
They both stepped out of the pooled material at their feet, and Ethan pulled her close and lowered her to the stack of blankets. He laid her back, his arms bracing his weight as he simply stared at her, bare, all for the slip of lace the lady at the wedding store had called panties.
Again, he whispered in Gaelic as his eyes wandered over her, and one hand followed the path his eyes went, and all Amelia could do was hold on to his arms and let him.
Every inch of her felt alive, wherever he looked or touched burned, and low in her belly, she ached— an ache so great it bypassed any pain by yards and yards. While his hands skimmed her breasts, down her side
, over her hips, she writhed, desperately wanting him to ease the ache inside.
Unable to help herself, she trailed her fingertips over his chest, down the rippled muscles of his stomach, and he sucked in a breath when her hand went lower, over his hips and muscular buttocks, and then closed over the very part she knew would take away the thing driving her crazy . . .
‘‘Christ in heaven, Amelia,’’ he muttered, his deep voice so thick with desire she could barely understand him. He loosened her grip and took both of her hands in one, trapping them above her head; then he lay overtop her completely, his hips settling in just the right place. Still, it wasn’t quite there . . .
With a slow, agonizing pleasure, he pressed his mouth to hers, tasted her mouth at the corners, tasted with his tongue, and then moved to her collarbone, and then lower, to her breast, and when his mouth closed over the sensitive skin she arched her back and tried to free her hands, but he held fast.
‘‘Steady lass,’’ he whispered against her stomach. He kissed her hip, her belly button, and then each rib. Painfully slowly. Heaven.
Almost.
‘‘Ethan, please,’’ she said, her own voice deep, and, God help her, pleading.
Still, his explorations continued. With a gentle hand, he urged her hips to one side, twisting at the waist, and his fingers traced the dragon tattoo at her lower back. Another muttered something in Gaelic, and he turned her back over to face him.
Finally, Ethan turned her hands free, and Amelia dug her fingers into his back and kneaded the muscles there, dragged her hands over scars she hadn’t known existed but fully planned to investigate another time.
The next time . . .
And then he kissed her. Sensual, soft at first, then turning starved, he tasted her like a man who’d not had sustenance in centuries. Amelia wriggled beneath him, coaxing him, arching into him . . .
‘‘Wrap your legs about me, lass,’’ Ethan whispered in her ear, and then whispered something else in Gaelic.
She did, and Ethan covered her mouth with his, and at the same time pushed deep into her, reaching a place she’d sworn never to give again, unless it was to the love of her heart.