Page 11 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

E mily’s shriek shot through Gryffe at his self-appointed post in the hallway across from the closed bedroom door.

He barreled into the room, immediately knowing what she had done. She had tried to leave him by using magic. Why? Had she not told him that whenever she did spellwork, she caught everything on fire? He clapped his hands. “ Recedo!”

The ring of fire disappeared, as did any damage it had caused, revealing Emily slumped in the floor with her head buried in her arms. Unable to decide whether to shake her, leave her there, or risk kissing her again, he settled for dropping to his knees in front of her.

“Did ye learn anything?” he asked as calmly as possible when she refused to lift her head and look him in the eye.

“I still suck at magic,” came her muffled reply from the depths of her arms.

His heart ached for her pain but it hurt even more because she was in such a hurry to leave him.

The kiss had meant nothing to her. She had not felt a thing.

Proof yet again that she was not his one.

This unholy burning that consumed him, the insistent urge that she was meant to be his was most definitely Nicnevin’s damned spell.

He would have a few choice words for his mother when next he saw her.

“Come. Let’s get ye back to the bed.”

Emily lifted her head and fixed him with such a forlorn expression that it tore a groan from him and made him pull her into his arms.

“I have made such a mess of my life,” she sobbed, clinging to him like a soul lost at sea, trying not to drown.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, steeling himself against the feelings she stirred.

With gentle shushing and stroking her hair as if she were a wee bairn, he carefully cradled her, taking into account her poor injured arse.

“Ye’ve nay made yer life a mess,” he told her quietly.

“Ye’ve merely taken a turn ye nay expected.

Once ye heal, once ye’re strong enough, we’ll get ye back to where ye belong, ye ken? ”

“I don’t belong anywhere.” She hugged him tighter, wailing and mumbling incoherently with her face tucked under his chin.

“Ye belong with me.” He flinched, closed his eyes, and prayed she hadn’t heard him.

Nicnevin’s glamour must be one that strengthened over time.

He silently cursed his conniving, dark-hearted mother to the hottest pits of hell.

“Come. Let us get ye into the bed, lass. A bit of sleep will do ye a world of good.”

She had gone suddenly quiet, barely snuffling and only hiccuping occasionally with her face still buried in his chest. Ever so slowly, she slid her arms out from around him and tucked into herself—a tight little bundle of misery. “If you could stand me up, I’ll try to walk.”

His heart sank even lower. Growling against the painful rejection, he swept her up, carried her to the bed, and gently lowered her into the nest of pillows.

As the backs of his hand brushed the bedclothes, he recoiled and hoisted her back to his chest. “The feckin’ linens are wet.

Would no one bring ye anything so ye could piss and keep yerself dry?

Inalfi! Get yer arse in here!” He swung about and glared at the door.

“I’ll have that girl’s hide and send her straight back to the kingdom. ”

“I did not wet the bed, and stop yelling at Inalfi. Grennove was using moist heat to make my butt feel better. Could you please set me down? This position pulls my leg and makes everything hurt worse.”

Inalfi flew into the room, came to an abrupt halt, and bowed her head. “Forgive me, my chieftain. I should never have left her. Please forgive me for failing our lady.”

“You did not fail me,” Emily said before Gryffe could further reprimand the maid. She twisted in his arms. “Please set me on the bed. I am dying here.”

“What?” Panic shot through him. “Fetch Grennove immediately!” he said to Inalfi as he eased Emily onto a dry part of the bed but kept his arm under her shoulders, supporting her so he could gaze into her eyes.

“Dinna die, my precious ember. I beg ye.” Then he noticed his precious ember looked far from being at death’s door.

Instead, she appeared ready to burst into a flaming ball of irritation.

“Inalfi, don’t go! That was just a figure of speech,” she said, spitting the words as if they tasted bad. “I’m not really dying. At least, I don’t think I am. My butt just throbbed a lot worse because of the way you held me.”

She had made him look the fool. He stepped away, letting her fall back among the pillows.

“Ow!”

Ignoring the infernal woman sent to torment him, he turned back to the maid. “If I am not in this room, dinna leave her again for any reason, lest she burn down the keep with her spellcasting. Ye were chosen because of yer ability to snuff magic. Am I quite clear this time?”

Head still bowed, Inalfi curtsied. “Yes, my chieftain.”

“Get her into some dry clothes and dry that bed as well. I slept on wetness and much worse during the wars, but I’ll not be doing it in my own home.”

“Yes, my chieftain.”

“You’re not sleeping in this bed with me,” Emily said, pushing herself back against the headboard with her uninjured leg.

“These are my private chambers, and that is my bed. I am chieftain here, and I sleep where I damn well please.”

“Then move me to another room.” She clutched the front of her heavy knit tunic as if determined it would stay put. Stubbornness flashed like fire in her dark topaz eyes.

“No, my lady.” He went to the cabinet in the corner and poured himself a whisky before turning and arching a brow at the maid. “Well?”

“Yes, my chieftain?”

“Do as I told ye. A dry shift for our lady, and a dry bed for us both. Now.”

“I am not stripping down in front of you,” Emily said with a feralness that made him want her even more. Damn, the woman made him ache for her in every possible way. But he had withstood Nicnevin’s spells before. He’d withstand this one as well.

“Ye’ll not be stripping down in front of me, my lady.” He turned back to the cabinet and refilled his glass. “Ye will be stripping down behind me. Inalfi—proceed.” When he heard no movement, he rapped a knuckle on the cabinet. “Shall I turn to inspect the progress the two of ye are making?”

“No—you shall shut the hell up before I hobble over there and throw that drink in your face.”

He snorted, the closest he ever came to laughing anymore. “Now, now…we dinna waste good whisky around here, my fiery ember. Would ye care for a glass to warm ye? ’Twill also help numb the pain in yer arse.”

“Drink more, then, because you are currently the biggest pain in my arse.”

And then a hearty laugh did burst free of him, startling him with how good it felt.

At that sudden realization, the mirth left him, but didn’t fade completely.

How long had it been since he had laughed?

How long had it been since he’d even smiled?

He shook away the foolish ponderings. What the devil did it matter?

He selected one of the finer glasses from the tray on the cabinet and filled it with a prudent amount of whisky, then topped off his own.

He squared his shoulders and stared straight ahead, ready to turn. “Are ye dressed yet, my lady?”

“Yes.”

The sullen fury in her voice threatened to make him smile.

Nicnevin’s spell , he silently chanted to keep himself in check, but as soon as he turned and beheld Emily in his bed, in her thin shift untied at the throat as if she were his eager bride, it nearly undid him.

Such a glorious woman. Why could she not be his one?

With forced nonchalance, he sauntered over to the bed and held out her glass. “Yer whisky, my lady.”

She glared at him, eyes glowing with even richer heat than the golden liquid in the glass. With a flare of her delicate nostrils, she accepted it from him but didn’t drink.

“I’ll be fetching our lady more tea with Grennove’s herbs, if that be to yer liking, my chieftain?” Inalfi said. “Be it all right for me to leave the room and do so?”

“Yes.” Gryffe didn’t break from Emily’s damning glare. “I shall be here till morning. Bring a tray of fruits, cheese, and meats as well, since we shall miss our supper. Have Cook send up her best and make the lads help ye, ye ken?”

“Yes, my chieftain.” Inalfi hurried out of the room.

After a sip of whisky, he pulled his favorite chair from its place beside the hearth and set it close to the bedside table.

The leather cushions squeaked and groaned as he settled into the chair’s depths.

He offered Emily a nod. “Whisky does ye more good if ye drink it rather than just hold it ’twixt yer hands. ”

She tore her focus from him and stared down at the drink, gently swirling it until the sparkles of light danced through the golden nectar. After the barest sip and while still glaring at the glass, she asked, “What did you mean by what you said?”

Her voice had lost its edge. A hesitancy echoed through it, making it quite clear which of his statements she meant.

The problem was—he had not said those words willingly.

Nicnevin’s glamour had pulled them from his lips.

The only way to keep his oath to his one was to confess the truth to Emily.

“It was not I who spoke those words. I did not say ye belong with me .”

An endearing bewilderment came over her, drawing her sleek black brows closer together as she stole a glance at him. “I distinctly heard you say that.”

“Aye—I did speak the words, but ’twas Nicnevin’s spell that pulled them from me. She has placed a glamour upon ye.”

Emily eyed him as if he’d sprouted a horn out of the top of his head. “She has done what?”

“A glamour. Placed it upon ye. Have ye not studied glamours yet?”

“I’ve heard of them—in movies and stuff—but I don’t think they are part of a Weaver’s arsenal, or Ishbel would’ve told me. Are you telling me they’re real?”