by Cindy Miles
Ethan claimed her then, and as they moved together, the candlelight throwing flickering shadows onto their faces, he lifted his head and stared. Desperately, they found each other’s heart, they found their release as well, deep, long movements that seemed to go in slow motion, and they didn’t break their stare, not once. Sensations built, broke, and exploded, and she held on, unwilling to let go. So powerful a moment, tears streamed down Amelia’s eyes as she gasped for air.
As they slowed, drank in the cool Highland night air, Ethan remained inside of her, filling her body and her soul with love. He pushed the hair from her face and pressed his lips to her temple, her eye, her lips.
And then suddenly, he had that small box in his hand. How he’d managed it, Amelia didn’t know. She looked at him, his face close, precious to hers.
‘‘Open it,’’ he said, that deep brogue washing over her.
Surprised at the strength she still had, Amelia lifted the lid from the simple silver box. Inside, two silver bands lay side by side.
Amelia thought them to be the same color as Ethan’s eyes.
‘‘Take them out,’’ he said, and suddenly his voice sounded strained. ‘‘And read the inside.’’
With her heart still pounding from their lovemaking, Amelia turned first one band, then the other to the moonlight. ‘‘Ethan loves Amelia.’’ She smiled, tears falling down the sides of her face. ‘‘By the by.’’
Wordlessly, he took the small one from her and slipped it over the third finger on her left hand. Amelia smiled through tears and pushed the bigger one over Ethan’s same finger.
He wrapped his arms around her and rolled, pulling her on top of him, remaining inside her. ‘‘We’re one, lass,’’ he said, and pulled her head to his and kissed her. ‘‘Mo grádh.’’
My love.
Amelia’s heart soared with happiness. Never had she thought she’d find a treasure like Ethan. She traced his brows, that fascinating moon scar beneath his eye, the bridge of his nose, the sensual curve of his mouth.
‘‘I’ll love you forever,’’ she whispered, and lowered her mouth to his.
And as their kisses grew frantic, and they moved together once again, they both knew they’d been given a true gift, indeed.
By the by . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I probably sound a bit repetitive with the people I thank for all of their help and support, but it’s really their fault. Honest. They just continue to be so darn helpful and supportive! So to the following, I’d like to say thank you. Again. Many times over.
My editor, Laura Cifelli, and my agent, Jenny Bent; I can’t say enough about these two. They’re always there to help, answer questions, inspire, and keep me in check. They’ve helped make me a better writer, and, I am lucky to have them both in my corner. Thanks!
My mom, Dale, and my dad, Ray, who are always so proud of me and enthused with my work, and to my husband, Brian, and my kids, Kyle and Tyler, who make me laugh and feel proud to be a wife and mom, and to all of my family who have been there over the years, through crazy adventures and just life: Sheri, Jerry, Tracy, Jordon, Ann, Brenda (and all of her kin!), Paul, Trey, Leah, Donnie, Jessica, Brett, Hank (that’s wacky Henry Heller III, by the way not to be confused with his fabulous and handome, witty, scholarly father, Hank Heller, along with his spectacular wife, Bonnie, who keeps all those Hellers in line), Sabrina, Odette, Nikki, Will, Vince, David, Gail, Troy, Joyce, Brenda R., Bonnie R., Rusty, and Dave and all their kids! Phew!! Thank you!
Especially to my baby sisters, Sheri, Tracy, and Nikki, who are all silly crazy-fun goof balls whom I share many an unforgettable memory with. I’ll grow old with you nutty girls any day!
The Denmark Sisterhood. These crazy womenfolk of mine make me laugh, and should the afternoon teas whe have ever be secretly recorded, we’d either all be in big trouble or become ridiculously famous! Thanks to Dona, the matriarch and a most fine writer, indeed (who recently had a very prestigious goat named after her!), Pat, Elaine, Beth, Meghan, Brandi, and Tyler. You guys are the best!
Kim Lenox is my very best pal and critique partner. Always there to encourage me, share loads of laughs, brainstorm, and to just be silly, I am ever so glad to have crossed paths with her. She is a fine writer and a kind spirit, who has really become a sister to me. (She is crazy funny, too!) Thanks for everything, Kim.
These next several crazy girls are my sister-friends. Wicked funny, terribly, sincerely demented, and more fun than a barrel of sea monkeys, they have cheered me on and supported me throughout my writing journey. They are some of the grandest women I know, and I am proud to call them all friends: Betsy Kane (what a nut!), Molly Hammond (she is crazy!), Eveline Chapman (just not right!), and Valerie Morton (she is a riot!—and her hubby, David, is the sweetest guy ever!) I am a better person for knowing all of you. Thanks guys!
These next gals are so supportive and funny, and their praise for my characters and stories (and some even inspire more characters) make me glad to be a writer: Christy (who is the inspiration for all things wacky!), Karen (I borrowed her beautimus eyes for Amelia!), Allison (who works hard to save the tatas) , Holly (whose hubby is the inspiration for all things guy-related), Renee (who has more energy than any normal human), Shay (who loves Tristan— for real!), Karol (lover of books who eats a lot of candy corn. Seriously. A lot), Lesley (who blesses my books before reading them), and Felicia (who is just plain sweet!). Thanks, guys!
To all the fantastic readers, especially those who have taken the time to write to me about my stories, thank you! Your praise encourages me and fills me with pride. And to megareader and pal, Rita-Marie Hester, who with the persistence of a stealthy Doberman, sneaks into her local bookstore and arranges my books in a most strategic, highly promoting manner. Thanks, Hester!
And one more special thanks to my mom, Dale, who is always so happy to talk book ideas with me. I love you, Mom!
Man—what fantastic people I know!
Read on for a sneak peek at
Cindy Miles’s next book,
coming soon from Signet Eclipse.
Odin’s Thumb Pub and Hotel
Northwest coast, Scotland
November, present day
"Right. Fifty quid then, lass."
Allie Morgan blinked. "Pardon me?" Quid? What the heck was that?
The cabdriver, a tall, lanky guy, around thirty, with a pair of soft brown eyes, grinned. ‘‘Your fare. Fifty sterling pounds.’’ He winked. ‘‘Quid.’’
With a smile, Allie nodded. ‘‘Gotcha.’’ Digging in her backpack, she pulled out the bills and paid the man. ‘‘Thanks for a spectacularly wonderful drive.’’
The driver’s grin widened. ‘‘Aye, and thank you for the spectacularly wonderful tip.’’ He stuffed the bills in the console and inclined his head. ‘‘Stayin’ at Odin’s, then, are you?’’ he asked.
Allie gave a nod. ‘‘I sure am.’’
The cabbie studied her for a few seconds, then shook his head and grinned even wider.
‘‘What?’’ Allie asked, gathering her bags. ‘‘What are you smirking at?’’
The driver chuckled. ‘‘Oy, lass, I’m sorry.’’ He lifted a brow. ‘‘Have you met the owner yet?’’
"Gable MacGowan?" Allie shook her head. ‘‘Not in person. Why?’’
He studied her a bit more. ‘‘Damn me, but he’ll not be expecting the likes of you.’’
Allie grinned and opened the door. ‘‘He’s not expecting me at all. I’m three days early. That’s why I just paid you a hundred American bucks to drive me here from Inverness.’’
The driver laughed. ‘‘Right. Let’s get your bags, then.’’
Allie shook her head, pulled her stocking cap over her ears, and stepped out of the cab. A fierce gust of coastal November wind hit her square in the face and she shivered. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Allie grabbed her overnight bag and the camera bag, and shut the door. At the back of the cab, the driver pulled out her one suitcase
.
‘‘I’ll take this in for you,’’ he said.
‘‘No, that’s okay. It’s not heavy.’’ Allie grasped the handle. ‘‘Thanks, though.’’
With a shake of his head, the cabbie slid back into the front seat. He glanced at Allie and cocked a brow. ‘‘You know it’s full of spooks, aye?’’
Allie gave him a big smile. ‘‘I sure do.’’
With a laugh, the cabbie waved and drove off.
After a deep breath of crisp, briny air, Allie quickly took in her seaside surroundings. White, traditional croft-style buildings, and others of weathered stone, lined the single-lane main street that rambled down to the wharf. Each establishment had a battered sign outside noting its business: a baker, a fishmonger, a small grocer, a post office, a few B and Bs, and a chip shop. With the notion to explore later, after she’d settled in, Allie turned and stared up at the sign hanging high above the single black-painted door of the white-washed inn and pub. ODIN’S THUMB was written in Old English script at the bottom of the sign, with a colorful picture of an imposing Viking longboat, the sail a deep red with black stripes, and the long, wooden bow a big ole thumb. She smiled. Perfect.
After balancing her gear on both shoulders, Allie opened the door to the pub and was all but blown into the dim interior of Odin’s Thumb. She set her suitcase off to the side and plopped her bags down beside it—
‘‘I’m not staying here another minute!’’ a woman’s voice shrieked.
Allie jumped, then stood there, against the wall, and took in the scene. Had she been any other woman, she’d probably have run screaming, too.
It was, after all, quite an interesting sight to behold. She almost had to pinch her lips together to keep from laughing. Instead, Allie simply observed.
Amidst the muted lamplight of the pub, flickering candles floated overhead, suspended in midair. A lady’s old-fashioned parasol opened and closed rapidly, also in midair. Beer mugs and wineglasses zipped—yep, in midair, from one side of the room to the other, coming precariously close to the head of the shrieking woman and sloshing ale everywhere. A suspicious-looking mist slipped around the bar stools, over the head of the woman whose face had turned dough-pasty, and at the same time the chairs began lifting and slamming back down on the floor.
‘‘Arrrgh!’’ screamed the woman, who batted at the mist swirling about her and ran for the door.
‘‘Wait, Mrs. Duigan, dunna go,’’ a deep, graveled and heavily accented voice said, the tall figure hurrying after her. ‘‘I can explain.’’
Mrs. Duigan paused briefly.
Just before the dozens of fish appeared in midair, their tails flapping back and forth.
She let out one final scream and pushed her way out of the pub.
The tall man—pretty darn good-looking, Allie thought—followed the frightened woman.
Allie peered out the door and watched Mrs. Duigan slam her car door and speed off. The man stared after her. With his back to Allie, he tilted his head, as if looking up to the sky, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark brown corduroy jeans, then looked down, staring at the sidewalk.
‘‘Oy, we’re in for it this time, aye?’’ said a male voice behind her.
‘‘ ’Twill be worth it, no doubt,’’ said another.
‘‘I dunno,’’ said yet another. ‘‘He looks powerfully angry this time.’’
Allie turned, and noticed the fish had disappeared, as had the floating candles and eerie mist. A handful of mischievous-looking spirits stood in a half circle, staring at her. A very-much-alive little boy stood in their center. His auburn brows furrowed together over a creamy complexion.
‘‘Who are you?’’ the boy asked Allie.
Allie looked each ghost in the eye. A friar. A pair of rather cute English lords. An old knight. A dashing sea captain. A noblewoman with a large hat on her head.
The sea captain’s mouth quirked into a grin. ‘‘Indeed. Who might you be?’’
The heated look he gave her, from the top of her head to her feet, then slowly back to meet her eyes, left little wonder just what he was thinking. Allie winked. ‘‘I can tell already you’ll be a handful.’’
The sea captain grinned.
‘‘Alys Morgan?’’
Allie turned and came face-to-face with the man who’d followed the woman out of the pub. He had a great accent, she thought. ‘‘Allie,’’ she said, preferring her nickname. Now, up close, she blinked in surprise. Good-looking? No way. Not even close. Ruggedly beautiful fit more closely. Tall, at least six foot two, with close-clipped dark hair, a dusting of scruff on his jaw, green eyes, and generous lips, he was broad-shouldered and . . . utterly breathtaking.
His eyes held hers, intense, studying, evaluating. A muscle flinched in his jaw, and Allie thought she’d never been more intimately weighed in her entire life. Her mouth went dry, and she finally cleared her throat. ‘‘Gable MacGowan?" She smiled and held out her hand.
He glanced behind her briefly, and when her gaze followed, she noticed the ghosts and boy had gone.
Ignoring her hand, the man gave a short nod and grabbed her bags. ‘‘Gabe. And you’re early,’’ he said, and inclined his head. ‘‘This way.’’ He turned and headed toward the back of the pub. Not once did he turn around to see if she’d followed.
Hurrying past a long, polished mahogany bar, complete with the high-backed stools that had moments before lifted and slammed against the wide-planked, wooden floors, Allie glimpsed the barely there figure of a bartender wearing suspenders and dark trousers, wiping down the tables with a white cloth. He tipped his soft hat by the bill and grinned, and she returned the smile and shrugged.
When Allie turned, she plowed into the very broad back of Gabe MacGowan. ‘‘Oops. Sorry.’’
Gabe stared down at her, those green eyes hard and set. He didn’t frown, nor did he smile, and yet the electricity that snapped in the air all but made Allie shiver. He remained completely aloof. ‘‘Dunna make friends with them. I’m paying you to make them leave.’’
Allie met his stare, mostly unhindered by his intensity. Instead of frowning, or telling him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, she gave him a wide, friendly smile. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’
He stared a moment longer, then turned and headed up the narrow staircase, the old wood creaking with each of his heavy steps.
Allie grinned behind him, thinking things could be a lot worse than walking behind Gabe MacGowan as he climbed a set of stairs. She wondered why such a gorgeous guy had a somber, unfriendly personality.
She’d tell him later that the one thing to remember when dealing with the unliving is you couldn’t make them do anything they didn’t want to.
Allie turned and glanced over her shoulder. The ghosts from before stood at the bottom of the steps. Grinning.
The sea captain, a tall, handsome man with dark sandy hair pulled into a queue, gave her a roughish smile and a low bow.
As she turned and hurried after Gabe, Allie decided right then and there that the decision to cross the Atlantic to oust a handful of mischievous spirits from their old haunt had been the smartest one she’d ever made.
Getting to know the ghosts of Odin’s Thumb would be exciting. But deciphering just what made Gabe MacGowan tick would be something else altogether . . .