Faolan snorted, then turned the sound into a hacking cough when Ciara shot him a warning glare.
“Ye know I have no magic, Ciara. How could my spirit be a comforting refuge?” Maxwell backed against the stones of the hearth and crossed his arms like a shield over his chest.
“You do have a bit of magic, Maxwell, and a heart big enough to shelter another.” Ciara took a step closer, wringing the cloth between her hands as she walked across the room. “Do you not recall blocking my magic when I tried to pull the wool of suggestion across your mind?”
“’Twas a reflex, woman!” Maxwell waved a hand in Faolan’s direction. “Your husband nettled me with that infernal nonsense the entire time we were young lads. I finally learned to close my mind to any magical suggestion because I grew tired of stepping off cliffs and plunging me arse into the deepest parts of an icy loch.”
Faolan shook with a low rumbling chuckle. “It did take him quite a while to learn to block the magic. I doused him at least every other day.”
Ciara rolled her eyes and turned her back to her husband, facing Maxwell instead. “But the point is you did learn how to block the energy. You have some mystical powers, Maxwell. Most people do. They just don’t know how to tap into it.”
Maxwell scrubbed both hands over his face. So this was her plan. She knew if Trish’s life was on the line, he’d have no choice but to do whatever she said. Honor demanded it. Damn, the stubborn woman and her conniving ways. How the hell did Faolan survive her? Blowing out a defeated breath, Maxwell dropped his hands to his sides. “What do ye propose we do? What does Keagan suggest?”
“Nothing as unpleasant as jumping into an icy loch,” Ciara assured with a smile. “My talented son said all we must do is a simple intertwining of your souls.”
“An intertwining of souls,” Maxwell repeated. “May the goddess Brid protect us all,” he added under his breath.
Chapter Six
Searing pain stabbed through her right side every time she sucked in a breath. Shallow breathing eased the misery until her lungs ached for more air. Trish steeled herself against the imminent pain. Crap…this is gonna hurt. She inhaled deeper, flinching at the now familiar agony of jagged bone tearing into tender flesh. Rolling her head to one side on the sweat-drenched pillow, Trish continued breathing in short erratic puffs. Dammit. Who the hell set off that jackhammer ratcheting inside her skull? The dull pound pulsed in sync with every beat of her heart. The nauseating ache drummed from the base of her neck all the way up the back of her skull and burned into the back of her eye sockets. Hot tears squeezed out from under her closed eyelids. Son of a bitch! Even tears hurt.
The high-pitched squeak of a door’s hinges filtered through her misery. Trish eased her head to the right, struggling to pull one swollen eyelid open just a slit. “Who is it?” The words stuck in her parched throat. She croaked them free, pushed them past her cracked lips then immediately wished she hadn’t. A fresh wave of pain exploded through her skull and vibrated down her spine.
“Don’t talk, Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s face swam into view. The weight of his tiny hand patted with a reassuring touch against her bare shoulder. “Just close yer eyes and listen. I know it hurts ye whenever ye talk or move.”
What a good boy. Trish relaxed her eye closed and straightened her head back into the damp dent on the pillow. She must be getting worse. She couldn’t imagine fully opening both eyes much less sitting up in the bed. Poor Ram. Before she died, she had to find a way to convince the little fellow that he mustn’t blame himself. Everything happened for a reason. Apparently, this was just the way she was meant to go.
A large calloused hand scooped under her palm and gently lifted it off the pillowed mattress. Warmth. The hand supporting hers radiated a comforting warmth into her freezing hand. A second hand folded over the top, rubbing a work-roughened thumb across the ridges of her aching knuckles. Trish squeezed the hand. Whoever it was, their heat felt good, seemed to lessen the pain in her bones.
“Auntie Trish.” Ramsey’s voice floated through the haze of pain ravaging through her head. Trish struggled to hear it better. Ramsay’s voice could be her anchor. For his sake, she had to hold on. She concentrated on the hand holding hers, mustering up enough strength to clench the calloused fingers with a trembling squeeze.
“She heard ye, lad. She just squeezed my hand.”
A deeper voice? Trish’s mind hitched trying to register on the soothing baritone rolling its “r’s” in her ear. It wasn’t Latharn. She knew his voice. Who was in the room with Ramsay?
“Auntie Trish. Keagan and I are going to join our powers and make ye feel better. Ye dinna have to do a thing but lay verra still and relax. Keagan says ’tis the only way for ye to get to feelin’ better. But we gotta have yer full permission or the magic won’t work.”
Trish eased in another painful breath, mulling over Ramsay’s words as they faded in and out of the painful fog clouding her mind. Magic. Spell. Feel better. Sounded like a definite hell yeah to her. Trish swallowed against the dryness scratching her throat, wincing as a sharp jolt of fresh agony sliced through her chest. If the spell didn’t work, she’d die. Either way, this endless torment would finally be over.
“Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s voice grew louder, closer to her ear. “If ye agree to the magic with all yer heart, squeeze Maxwell’s hand.”
Maxwell? Confusion muddied the fog wrapped around her consciousness. Who the hell was Maxwell? A choking pressure inflamed her lungs. She needed more air. Drawing in a shaking breath, Trish focused what little strength she had into her right hand. Lordy, the tiniest movement took so much effort. She concentrated on the calloused hand cradling hers and squeezed.
“She agrees.”
Was that Maxwell? Trish felt her body grow lighter; the pain surged with an unbearably strong stab then ebbed to a less searing throb, undulating like a cruel tormenting wave.
Light. Soothing light flooded into her mind, a golden stream of shimmering yellows and blazing oranges flowed through her, chasing away every last remnant of pain. Trish sucked in a deeper breath. Finally. A decent breath of air. She almost laughed aloud. A lungful of oxygen never felt so good. Directly in front of her, suspended against a backdrop of stars, a flowing cloud of iridescent particles swirled into the glowing shape of a smiling, bearded man. Damn. Had she finally died and was being greeted by a hairy angel?
Trish patted her body; her hands passed through her chest and stirred the shimmering air behind her. Holy crap! She must be dead. She peered closer at the man up ahead. Why did he seem so familiar?
The man’s smile widened as he held out his hand. His translucent palm glowed with a blinding orb of blue-white light as though fired by a mysterious arc welder.
Trish drew closer. She’d never seen an angel before and this one seemed so…welcoming. As she floated across the starlit void, the vision of the man sharpened, focused clearer into view. Trish stopped. Since when did an angel wear a kilt…and sport a full reddish-brown beard?
The angel smiled and beckoned her forward while still holding out his hand.
He did seem nice enough. Trish floated forward a bit further then stopped again. She couldn’t leave until she had some sort of promise that someone would reassure Ramsay. “I can’t go with you until I know Ramsay’s okay. I don’t want him to blame himself.”
The man nodded agreement with a single dip of his chin, then extended his glowing hand again.
Wow. Who would’ve thought dying could be so painless? Trish floated forward another few feet, the closer she drew to the welcoming man; the more pleasurable the pulsating warmth felt coursing through her veins. Trish relaxed, took in a deep breath and smiled back at him. He did have the nicest eyes. They crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled as though he were about to laugh aloud. And he seemed so friendly, making her feel as though she’d known him since the beginning of time.
He took a step forward, met her half way, then bent and scooped up her hand. As Trish
wrapped her fingers around his glowing palm, her vision exploded into a cloud of blinding white sparks, electrifying heat surged through her, then everything faded to black.
Chapter Seven
The faintest tickle teased across the end of one nostril. Trish wiggled her nose, rubbed it against the back of her hand, then buried her face into the furry warmth cradled against her head. Pain-free warmth. Trish dozed back into oblivion. Another tickle assaulted the end of her nose, threatening to trigger a sneeze.
Batting away the persistent offender, Trish stretched, inhaled a deep lung-expanding breath and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She laced her fingers into the tight nest of curly hair springing about her face. Hair?
Trish opened her eyes to a mountainous mound of chest coated with a lush carpeting of reddish-brown hair. Trish sprang backward toward the far side of the bed, digging and kicking at the covers. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?”
The man didn’t bother opening his eyes, just rolled toward Trish and beckoned with an extended arm. In a drowsy voice, mumbled against the pillows, he motioned toward his chest. “Ye know me, lass. Now quit yer fussin’ and come over here. ’Tis wicked cold in this room and I’d planned on sleeping a bit longer.”
Trish settled her back against the bone-chilling cold of the stone wall, planted her feet dead center of the furry expanse of chest and shoved.
As his naked body slid over the edge of the bed, Maxwell’s eyes popped open. He hit the floor with a heavy thud followed by several muttered words that Trish was fairly certain were Gaelic curses. Rising above the side of the over-sized mattress, Maxwell’s sleepy expression changed to one of irritated confusion. “Dammit, Trish! Why the hell did ye do that?”
“You know my name?” Trish scooted as far back against the wall as she could manage, yanking all the covers of the bed up around her naked body and wadding them under her chin. How did he know her name? Holy crap. She was naked. He was naked. They’d been in bed together. Dammit. When had she gotten that drunk, and what the devil had she done? “Who the hell are you?”
Maxwell rose higher above the edge of the bed, scrubbing the heel of one hand against one eye while propping his head with the other. “I am Maxwell. Ye’d think ye’d remember the name of the man who called ye away from death’s door.”
“Called me away?” Trish stared at the hairy, green-eyed man propped on the side of her bed. A nagging sense of having forgotten something very important gnawed at the back of her mind. He did seem a little familiar. But that still didn’t explain who he was or why they were both naked in the same bed.
“Aye.” Maxwell nodded, then stretched with another jaw-cracking yawn. Scrubbing his fingers through the mat of curly hair on his chest, he nodded toward the hearth. “The coals are low and the room is cold. Now, can I get back in the bed?”
“Are you crazy?” Trish stretched and grabbed an iron candleholder off the shelf above the bed. “I may be small but don’t make the mistake of thinking that I’m helpless.” Waving the weighty weapon toward a plaid tossed across a chair beside the hearth, Trish pulled the covers closer about her chin. “There’s a wrap. You can cover up with that while you explain who you are.”
“God’s beard,” Maxwell grumbled as he pushed himself up from the floor. “’Tis a sorry day when a man saves a woman’s life just to get ousted from a warm bed and sent to sit by a dying fire.”
Wow. Trish arched her brows and bit her tongue against the desire to emit a low admiring whistle. He must not be that cold. She didn’t attempt to look away as Maxwell paraded across the floor. Trish had to admit the man looked damn sexy…coated with a heavy dusting of reddish-brown hair or not. Leaning to the side to improve the angle, Trish followed him with her gaze. She’d always been attracted to the burly type. They cuddled better after a good romp in the sheets.
As Maxwell bent to retrieve the plaid, he grinned over one shoulder and winked. “I’m verra glad ye seem to be enjoying the view.”
Trish shook herself and snapped her sagging lower jaw shut. She hadn’t meant to stare or get lost in a fantasy trip. Brandishing the candlestick higher in the air, she motioned toward the chair. “Never you mind about what I’m enjoying. How ’bout you just sit over there and start explaining.”
Maxwell’s deep-green eyes sparkled with mischief as he raised his arms over his head and stretched long and slow.
Trish squirmed in the bed as she caught him watching her. She didn’t know why he complained the room was cold. It felt pretty damn warm to her.
Maxwell peeped around a bulging bicep and flexed layers of hardened muscles in the reddish glow of the hearth before wrapping the plaid about his waist. With one hand and the ease that Trish would pick up a pencil, Maxwell hefted a log the size of Trish into the dying coals.
Trish didn’t miss how the muscles of his back rippled as he stirred the blackened iron poker in the fire. Dammit. How could she not remember playing in the sheets with that? Running her tongue across her lips, Trish frowned as she tasted chapped and broken skin. She raised her fingertips to her mouth, patting gently against the tender broken flesh stretched across her lips. “What’s wrong with me?”
Maxwell crossed his legs at the ankles, folding his hands across his stomach as he leaned back in the chair. “Nothing now. But ’twas little more than a few hours ago that ye were about to meet your maker.”
Trish pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing the inside corners of her eyes. Nothing Maxwell said made sense. Bits and pieces of strange thoughts filtered through her mind. Were they memories or just bad dreams? “For my sake, could you please just start at the beginning and give me a quick rundown?”
Maxwell settled his head against the high back of the wooden slatted chair and stared unblinking at the ceiling. “The beginning. Well let’s see. I suppose the beginning would be the part where ye suddenly appeared above the tables in the library of magics, in the midst of a howling wind with a young boy clenched in your arms. Ramsay survived the trip through time quite well but you were near fatally injured. Young Keagan figured out that only those who are fully blessed and active in their magic are able to survive navigating the web of time and bring their souls along with them. Ye see, young Ramsay’s a magical MacKay but you, my dear, are not.” Maxwell paused, inhaled a deep breath and then continued. “So, the only way to save yer life was to intertwine yer soul and meld your latent magic to another soul’s dormant gifts. Keagan said we must anchor ye to a soul in this time.” Maxwell thumped his hand to the center of his chest. “That would be me.”
Trish stared at the grinning man, her head pounding with the information he’d just spewed in a single breath. “You have got to be kidding.”
“If ye think I’d go to the trouble of weaving a fantastical tale such as that just to get in a woman’s bed”—Maxwell paused, then his eyes narrowed—“then ye’d best think again because Maxwell Sullivan has ne’er been that desperate for a woman to warm his sheets.”
Trish closed her eyes, massaging her temples as she sorted through everything the man had just said. She remembered now. Burying her face in her hands, she groaned out loud. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here naked in the year 1424.”
“Aye. Well.” Maxwell chuckled a warm deep laugh. “Yer doing it quite well.”
Great. Just what she needed right now. A freakin’ comedian. Trish raised her head, propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands. “You still didn’t explain why the two of us woke up this morning. Together. Naked.”
Maxwell scratched his chin and grinned down at his feet. “First of all, it willna be morning for quite some time. Secondly, when two souls are joined, the bodies are…” His words trailed off into suggestive oblivion.
Trish sat bolt upright. “Are you telling me we did it?” Holy crap! She hadn’t forgotten the details of a sexual encounter since that unfortunate pairing in college. A residual shudder rippled across her flesh. She’d never get that drunk aga
in no matter how many centuries she wandered through. Lifting her gaze to Maxwell’s amused expression; she waved the candlestick across the bed. “Well? Answer me. Did we have sex or not?”
Maxwell’s chest rumbled out another deep chuckle. “Not, lass.” He pulled himself up straighter in the chair. “I’d never foist myself on a helpless woman. ’Twould be a truly dishonorable thing to do…taking advantage of a maid who’s not in control of her body? Ye insult me with such a question.”
Trish wilted back against the pillows and stretched out her legs. Remembering Maxwell’s words, she straightened again and shook the candelabra in his face. “So, what the hell were you going to say about two bodies are? Are what? Finish it!” She’d never met such an infuriating man in all her life. Too bad he’d saved her life because if he didn’t stop teasing her with half-explanations she was going to be forced to kill him.
A teasing grin peeped out from beneath Maxwell’s moustache, curving his full lips to the side. “Ye didna give me time to finish what I was about to say. When two souls intertwine, the flesh of the bodies becomes exhausted with the joining. To seal the binding of the souls, the two must touch while they rejuvenate together. Two beings traveling the realm of sleep in a pairing is one of the most unifying acts for joined souls since the dawn of man.”
They’d slept together. Really slept. Trish eased out a relieved sigh. Good. Nothing else had happened. Perfect. Trish squirmed among the pillows. If she hadn’t wanted anything to happen, why did she suddenly have a vague feeling of disappointment?
Maxwell pushed himself up from the chair and stretched again, raising his long arms toward the ceiling. “Now that we’ve settled that, what say ye to getting a bit more sleep?”
A Highlander in Her Past Page 5