by Ruby Duvall
After covering the dough and setting it in the center of the table, she went back to her own batch and plunged her hands into the malleable mass, working in the last of the flour. She could hear Iain’s footsteps as he approached, could see his shadow on the table.
“How are ye feeling?” he asked. Her eyes were trained on the dough in her hands and from the edge of her periphery she saw his fingers touch the table.
She wanted to say she felt fine but she really couldn’t lie to him. “Sore, but happy about it. You?”
He walked around to her side of the table. “Distracted.” The wall of heat that preceded him began to soak into her right side and his voice deepened. “I canna stop thinking about ye.” His hands grasped her hips, smoothing a slow path around her waist to her abdomen and then back again. His chest was heavy against her back and his firm lips kissed the nape of her neck. The cradle of his pelvis was a perfect fit against her rear and she already knew how well his swelling erection fit.
“Iain,” she sighed, trying to wipe the thin layer of flour off her fingers. His hands were also busy, roaming over every curve she had. By the time she was wiping her hands on her apron, he was already fondling her breasts, pinching her nipples through her dress and nibbling on the sensitive flesh just behind her ear. She couldn’t help it when she shivered. “Do you…do you want to go somewhere?”
“Aili willna be back too soon,” he whispered.
“Well I—you want to…here?”
“She isna ignorant—a pain in my ass, aye but nae ignorant.” Iain kept one hand on her breasts as his other reached low and grabbed her skirt. “We have enough time. It willna take me long.”
A little offended, Emma laughed. “It won’t take you long?”
His hand found her bare thigh and his weight on her back became much heavier as he tried to bend her over. He chuckled in her ear and as she set her hands on the table, she would’ve given anything in that moment to see his smile.
“Aye, it willna be long at all ’til ye’re screaming my name. I ken that between those thighs,” he breathed, sliding one hand to the inside of her leg, “ye’re already wet.”
The man was psychic.
“I shouldna be surprised,” an annoyed voice said. Emma’s eyes flicked to the door and utter horror filled her to find Rossalyn standing there. It was completely obvious what Iain was doing—what he was about to do.
“Damn it, Rossalyn.” Iain took his weight off Emma and allowed her to stand up straight. He then tucked her against his side. As embarrassed as Emma was, Iain’s deliberate display filled her with a very satisfying sense of victory.
Rossalyn’s lips lifted into what looked like a sincere smile. “I shouldna be surprised that the man who finally brought in a MacGregor thief was ye.” As though she had the right, she boldly strolled into Iain’s home. Her eyes roved over the extra baskets of food and the two barrels of ale, one still half-full. “I see the laird gave ye yer just reward, Iain,” she said.
“Kenneth as well,” Iain said. Emma saw his frown from the corner of her eye, could see the frustration in his body. It was no coincidence that her bowl of bread dough happened to be hiding his loins from Rossalyn’s line of sight.
“Do ye ken what’ll happen to the thief? I’m sure the constable told ye.” Rossalyn’s voice was coated with a sickly sweet lilt that was as feigned as it was annoying and it undoubtedly worked on almost any man within earshot.
“He didna,” he said. “If ye are so curious, any of the men-at-arms that tail ye could probably give ye better information.”
She pouted, twirling her finger around a knot in the wood of the table. “None of them knows. I was so sure that ye would, Iain.”
“Ye were mistaken then.”
“Oh but I’m trying so hard to ask nicely,” she said with that hateful, pretty frown. “Do ye think they’ll kill him?”
“What concern is it of yers?” Iain released Emma but not before squeezing her arm. She glanced down to verify that he was decent, almost smiling to know that Rossalyn had taken the fire out of him.
“Everyone knows I loathe violence. Would it nae be a kind, merciful gesture to let him go?” Emma looked at Rossalyn, disturbed that they held an opinion in common, but the lack of passion in the other woman’s voice made the sentiment insulting. Rossalyn didn’t really care about the thief. She was trying to win admiration at the expense of someone else.
“That’s the laird’s decision to make,” Iain reminded the other woman. He then heaved a disappointed sigh. Emma knew he was becoming restless to return to his work and escape the licentious woman. She didn’t want him to go, didn’t want him to leave the two of them together. Her ardent wish was in her eyes but Rossalyn spoke.
“I’m sorry, Iain. Ye must be so busy. Dinna let me keep ye,” she said, daintily waving him toward the door. “I only need to ask Aili something when she returns.”
“Aili? I thought ye hated her,” Iain said.
Rossalyn tittered, crossing her arms but holding one hand over her mouth. She then flapped her hand at him. “Dinna be silly. Aili and I dinna get along so well but she’s still my elder. Rachel has run out of soap and I need some today. I know Aili always has some extra soap to sell.” This excuse relieved some of Emma’s worries but not all of them. “I’m sure that…uh,” Rossalyn said haltingly. “I’m sure that we’ll be fine together for just a couple of minutes.” The woman didn’t even know her name. Emma frowned.
“All right,” Iain relented. Emma almost grabbed his elbow when he walked around the table toward the door and she looked at Rossalyn, who wasn’t smart enough to wipe the superior look off her face. She didn’t want to beg Iain to stay, though. Rossalyn would think she was afraid of her.
“Call if ye need me,” he said, watching her for a couple of seconds before ducking out the door.
Emma glanced at Rossalyn. The woman didn’t look hateful but she did look miffed, like a child who didn’t get the present she wanted.
“I dinna see how he could bed a woman with skin as spotted as yers.” Slap! Emma very nearly reached up and touched the sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones. “Then again, he seemed to prefer nae to look at yer face. Perhaps he’s just scratching an itch.”
Oh, this was so not going to happen. “He was pretty content to look at my face last night when he was on top of me.”
Rossalyn crossed her arms, wearing her ugly frown. “Ye’re nae really any relation of his, are ye?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t have been bent over his table.”
Rossalyn lifted her nose, taking in a deep breath. “Ye are nae part of the Campbell clan either?” she asked. “Ye’re nae one of us?”
Emma blanched, realizing what she had just admitted. Her hesitation was answer enough for Rossalyn. A tiny smirk sat on the woman’s perfect little mouth. The linen kerchief around Emma’s neck suddenly felt too tight and she pulled it off completely.
“Not exactly but I will be soon. I’m staying with Iain,” she said. “He’s all I want.”
A sound more delicate than a snort accompanied Rossalyn’s tiny, cynical shrug. “All ye want? Aye and the King of Scots is all I want. Iain has the largest herd of sheep in the ten closest villages. The laird only owns a small part of the flock. The rest are Iain’s. He’s the richest crofter for fifty miles.”
Emma’s eyes grew round and her jaw suddenly felt as heavy as a full jug of water. Rossalyn made another dainty snort. “Oh dinna tell me ye didna know. I can tell when someone is lying to me. A selfish, spotted, shameless outsider like ye dinna deserve Iain.” Rossalyn’s tirade continued but Emma was too preoccupied to hear anymore.
Iain had never said anything about the size of his wealth, though why he would, she didn’t know. He wasn’t boastful or wasteful. She had thought that she was merely lucky to come upon someone with a real bed—two of them—someone who didn’t worry as much about food for the leaner months and who had clothing to spare. She felt like such a fool for not guessing
, not noticing.
“Are ye even listening to me?” Rossalyn began walking toward her, fists swinging at her sides, but for a couple of agonizing seconds Emma couldn’t react. “Ye dinna deserve this either.” The woman grabbed at her. She lifted her arms and tried to shield herself, instinctively worried about a blow.
Emma felt the snap when her locket was ripped off.
She screamed—or at least, she thought she did. She couldn’t hear a scream. Only a high-pitched ringing filled her ears, the kind that stays with you for days after a rock concert. For a few seconds, she couldn’t see either. Then the pain began to penetrate—blinding, white-hot, breath-stealing pain. It hurt so badly that she didn’t feel it at all when she hit the ground. One second, her arms were in front of her face and the next, she was on her left side facing the fire only a couple of feet away. After the first wave of pain crested, another one slammed into her. She heard her reaction this time but it was only a hollow, wheezy exhalation.
Finally, she sucked in her first breath of air. She didn’t know how she managed it but she turned her head a little and looked up at Rossalyn standing over her. The woman’s face was stark white, her eyes wide and her lips ajar. Her right hand held the locket, which dangled from her trembling fist. Another blow of pain made Emma see spots, made her whimper. With her next breath, she tried to speak, to tell Rossalyn how to save her.
Rossalyn’s fingers snapped open, dropping the locket. Emma could only guess that it landed by her feet. The curvy blonde ran out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
With every torturous jolt of pain, it felt as though a giant pair of hands was trying to break her in half. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs to scream for help. She could barely even move and something told her she didn’t have much time.
Her first attempt to sit up nearly put her under. Her vision narrowed and shimmered and breathing suddenly became twice as difficult.
“Emma?” Aili called. Emma was too involved in trying to breathe to even feel relieved. “Chan urrainn dhomh do fhaicinn!”
Gaelic? The locket had indeed been translating for her.
Thinking beyond that was impossible though. She couldn’t get any air and another round of pain shuddered through her. The edge of a skirt brushed her ankles just before Aili walked into her, kicking the sole of one of her black sneakers.
“Locket,” she wheezed. Something warm was rising up her throat. “Locket.” Those two words cost her a great deal. She could see only a tiny pinpoint of space in front of her. The rest was black. She coughed and that warm something spilled out of her mouth, dribbling across her cheek.
Aili dropped her cane. Her voice faded as she yelled, “Iain! Iain!” Emma managed to get another blessed cycle of air. It sounded like someone blowing bubbles in chocolate milk but it was at least air. She didn’t try to move anymore or speak another word, too worried that it would push her into unconsciousness—or worse.
—
Iain ran to the house, his right leg limping and his chest aching with anxiety. Something sank its claws into his chest at the sight of Emma crumpled on the ground. He knelt at her side, calling her name and reached for her, wanting to lift her from the ground, to wipe away the blood splashed across her cheek.
She whimpered feebly when he tried to sit her up and he let go, cursing at himself for not thinking. Coughing up blood was a bad sign. Had Rossalyn stabbed her? He ran his hands over her, searching. Her ribs had broken in several spots. The bones shifted and rolled without anything to hold them in place.
“L-lahket,” she gurgled. More blood spilled from her mouth. “Fahynd thuh lahket.” Iain reared back, stunned to hear her speaking a strange language and nearly panicking because he didn’t understand.
“She keeps saying ‘lahket’,” Aili fretted. “Oh God, Iain, help her.”
“I…I canna,” he said. A pierced lung meant death.
When she weakly touched her fingers to her chest, he felt tears in his eyes. Resolutely blinking them back, he watched as she pawed at her neck.
Something was missing.
Hope surged inside him. Leaning toward her, he covered her hand with his. “Rossalyn? Does Rossalyn have it?” She shook her head, moving her fingers again. He lifted his hand and watched as she pointed at her feet. His head whipped around, his eyes spotting the glint of a small object half-hidden under a fold of her skirt. He grabbed for it.
The “lahket” was warm and heavy in his hand. The clasp was still intact and the chain unbroken. Wasting no more time, he slid it around her neck and fastened it. With a sigh, she went slack and her eyes fluttered shut.
“Emma, no,” he whispered frantically, gripping her shoulders. She was dying. Jesus, she was dying! He laid his head over her chest, listening for her heartbeat, and was surprised to hear a strong, steady pulse. “Mother o’…” he breathed, leaning back up. “Wet a cloth, Aili.” He smoothed strands of hair off Emma’s forehead. Aili did as he said without comment.
The slap-scuff of sprinting footsteps grew louder outside just before Kenneth appeared at the door. “What has happened?” he panted. Aili set a bowl of water next to Iain and handed him a small cloth from her basket. Iain dipped it into the water and cleaned the blood from Emma’s face.
Kenneth’s voice became harsh and cold. “Did Rossalyn do this?”
“I dinna know,” Iain answered.
“I saw her running away,” Aili said. “A red blur tearing off toward the village. I got here as fast as I could, Iain. As fast as I could.”
“I ken, Aili. I thank ye for that. Ye saved her life.”
Kenneth squatted on Emma’s other side. “But what happened, Iain?”
Frustration filled him. Frustration at Kenneth for asking him what he didn’t know, at Rossalyn for hurting Emma, at fate for delivering him a woman as impossible to understand as she was alluring.
He barely knew anything about the stranger on the ground in front of him. He didn’t know where she was from or how to help her. He didn’t know why she had come to the Highlands. If only she would give him some answers.
“Her ribs are broken and she was coughing up blood,” Iain explained. “Her charm was missing. Perhaps Rossalyn tore it off but Emma…she was trying to tell us to put it back.” He tossed the bloodied cloth into the bowl.
“It sounded like she was speaking English,” Aili said. Kenneth’s head whipped up and Iain glanced grimly at his friend.
“English? That’s impossible.” The redhead looked at Emma again. “I’m sure it just sounded like it.”
“It wasna exactly English,” Iain said with a nod. “She settled when the charm was back around her neck.”
“My God, she really is one of the good people,” Kenneth said with awe.
Iain squeezed his eyes shut. “I was hoping ye wouldna say that.”
—
Rossalyn looked over her shoulder, making sure for the tenth time that no one was following her. Though she had some information for him, she wasn’t looking forward to seeing the MacGregor that night—assuming he was still alive to see her signal. If it weren’t for certain unavoidable reasons, she would not meet him ever again but the MacGregor still had some uses and she was willing to chance his wrath.
Pausing, she stopped to listen for footsteps but heard nothing and continued on her way to the top of the hill, picking her way around the denser underbrush and watching her step. When she crested the hill, she stopped to catch her breath. Not much farther.
A hand covered her mouth and a cold blade bit into the skin on her neck. A large, warm body stepped against her. Rossalyn shrieked but it was mostly muffled.
“Nowt would be there to stop me? How about three dogs and a giant farmer good with a sword? Tell me why I shouldna kill ye here and now,” Craig growled in her ear. Her blood ran cold as she realized that she hadn’t told him about Iain’s dogs.
Craig’s hand left her mouth, his palm shoving her chin up to keep her throat exposed. “P-please, I made a mistak
e. I can make it up to ye,” she begged. A tear tumbled down her cheek. She hadn’t thought he would be angry enough to kill her.
“My baby brother fell into their hands!” he snarled. Brother? Oh God, he was going to do it. He would slice her open and bleed her all over the ground. “Ye think ye can remedy this? Ye think I care about ye? A Campbell whore? The only thing ye can do is be still while I slit yer throat.” He pressed the knifepoint harder into her skin.
“No, please! I-I have information about yer brother and I can help ye g-get him back.”
“He’s still alive?” The pressure of the knife lessened. “Talk then. We’ll see if yer information is worth yer life.”
Rossalyn spoke as fast as her nerves would let her. “The crofter’s name is Iain and about a week ago, a woman came to live with him, h-his lover.”
“What are ye talking about? What do I care for another Campbell whore?” he spat, pricking her neck with the sharp blade.
“S-she’s nae a Campbell! She has no clan!” Craig stilled, his attention caught. “She is important to both Iain and the laird. I have seen what she is with my own eyes—one of the good folk, the people of the mounds.”
“Ye lie. I’ve never seen one of their kind.”
“’Tis true! She wears a special charm. I saw its power, which should belong to the MacGregor clan. It was on yer lands that she appeared. It should be the MacGregor clan that benefits from fairy luck.”
He didn’t speak for a couple of breaths. “What power?” he then asked.
“To stop death.” She felt his surprise, heard the deep breath he took. “Ye can use her to get yer brother. The laird values her—I heard it myself from his servant. Once ye have yer brother, ye can kill her. Ye would have yer revenge.”
For a long, tense moment, Craig said nothing. Rossalyn knew she was putting her life at risk just to eliminate the fairy—she almost expected to feel the knife slice a long, deep line across the front of her throat—but ever since Iain’s first love had died, she had been trying to attract the well-off crofter. She wasn’t about to lose to an outsider whom Iain had known for only a couple of weeks.