Page 12 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

“Aye, quite real. Ye’re nay the first that Nicnevin sent to fool me.”

She straightened and squared her shoulders as if insulted. “A lot of women have dropped in your horse’s path, have they? Are you as charming to all of them as you are to me?”

“I easily sent them back to where they belonged. Their glamours were weak.” He shook his head and fortified his courage with another sip of whisky. The slow burn down his gullet gave him strength. “Ye appear to be different, though. The spell she placed upon ye is strong.”

After another sip of her drink, Emily seemed even more bewildered as she stared upward. “Wouldn’t I know it if Nicnevin had done that to me? Wouldn’t the Weavers sense her presence in Seven Cairns? They’re pretty secure there. They sense magic whenever it’s used.”

He hadn’t taken that into consideration.

Emily’s Weaver ancestry might make a difference.

But her bloodline had to be weak. After all, if she had been a pureblood Weaver, she would’ve already healed.

Unless—he had heard stories of the goddesses dabbling in the lives of Weavers, all for the greater good and the strength of the Highland Veil.

Above all else, it had to be protected, or every world, every timeline, and reality would plunge into unbearable chaos.

“Have ye known of yer Weaver’s blood all yer life?” He flinched for her as she shifted positions and appeared to still be in quite a bit of pain. “Drink more whisky, lass. Trust me, it will help.”

“I don’t want to become too…” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Compliant.”

“Compliant?”

She pinned him with a pointed glare. “You said you were sleeping in this bed tonight—remember?”

“I have never forced myself on an injured woman, and most especially, not an unwilling one. No matter how compliant she might temporarily think herself because of drink.” Mildly insulted, he tossed the rest of his whisky back and rose to get another. “More or no?”

She finished hers off as well and handed him the glass. “More.”

“Now, as I asked before, have ye known of yer Weaver’s blood all yer life?”

“Not really.”

“Ye sound confused, lass. Either ye knew it or ye didn’t.” He filled their glasses and returned, handing hers over before settling back into his chair.

“I knew who my ancestor was—not what she was.” She ran a fingertip around the rim of the glass, causing him to take in the gracefulness of her long fingers.

She twitched a faint shrug. “All I knew about her was her name. My great-great grandmother Esme.” She shifted to more fully face him, studying him as if he were an oddity in a book.

“You said you sent the others back where they belonged. Why haven’t you done the same for me? ”

“Ye are different from the others.” He wouldn’t add that he hadn’t sent her away because he hadn’t wanted to—a dangerous weakness he refused to admit. “Nicnevin’s spell is stronger this time and gaining strength by the moment.”

Emily relaxed deeper into the pillows, staring straight ahead now as she occasionally sipped her drink, then hugged it to her chest. “Ishbel says the reason I have so much trouble with my magic is because my emotions are in an uproar. She thinks it’s because they haven’t been able to find my fated mate. ”

He choked on his whisky, thumping his chest as he tried to clear his windpipe of the fiery fluid.

She watched him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I am Gryffe, remember?” He cleared his throat, thumped his chest one last time, then reached for her glass. “If ye canna remember my name, ye have had enough.”

“ Okay means the same thing as all right or well. I was checking to see if you were all right or if I needed to help you beat on your chest, so you wouldn’t die on me.”

“Why do ye care if I die, lass? Ye set the room on fire trying to get away from me.”

“I did not.” She took a big swig, then blinked from the fumes and wheezed in and out from the overly large sip. “I was trying to get back home, not get away from you.”

“If ye return to yer time, ye will be away from me, ye ken? I can travel across the centuries whilst in the Dreaming, but I hate it.”

“The Dreaming?” She paused with her glass partway to her mouth. “What is that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Traveling wherever ye wish through dreams. The Dreaming is the plane that holds them. That place is an unholy chaos, constantly fluid and ever-changing depending on who is there and who is not. Some have more control over their dreams than others. It’s none too pleasant when ye become snagged in someone else’s nightmare.

” He drank the last of his whisky and set it aside.

He’d had enough. “Nicnevin loves the place. She thrives on chaos.”

“Is she evil?” Emily rubbed her nose, then held out her glass for him to take. “Here. The tip of my nose is going numb. I have had enough.” Still gently squeezing her nose, she asked again, “Is Nicnevin evil?”

“She can be, depending on her mood.”

“Is she as bad as Morrigan?”

That surprised him. “What do ye know of the Morrigan?”

“She almost killed my best friend while trying to keep her from bonding with her fated mate.” Emily shuddered as if suddenly cold.

He rose and tucked the bedclothes up around her shoulders, then sat on the bed beside her.

“Nicnevin is not as heartless as the Morrigan, nor as hungry for death or the destruction of the Veil. But she is a vain, selfish beastie, and more often than not, leaves a feckin’ mess wherever she goes.

” Seeing how Emily still appeared worried, he impulsively reached out and cupped her cheek.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass. I would never allow her to harm ye.”

“There is so much kindness in your eyes,” she said as if speaking more to herself than him.

He pulled his hand away as if the touch of her burned him.

And it did. Her very existence set him ablaze.

He needed quiet to turn within himself and strengthen his resolve, to find a way to undo Nicnevin’s spell.

“Shall ye sleep some afore ye eat? Inalfi should return soon with yer tea and our supper.”

“I’m not sleepy.” Her eyelids drooped lower. “I’m lost.”

“Ye’re nay lost, my precious ember. Merely a bit confused.” He eased off the bed and silently shifted away. “I wish ye were mine to claim,” he added softly as he moved to stand in front of the hearth fire. “With all my heart, I wish ye were my one. ”

* * *

Emily opened her eyes and froze. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch so much as a finger. This wasn’t her room in her cozy cottage at Seven Cairns. Even in the dim lighting, she could tell this wasn’t her bed. Then, she remembered where she was and exhaled, sagging deeper into the pillows.

Steady breathing beside her dared her to turn her head in that direction.

Gryffe hadn’t lied. Even though he was fully clothed and lying on top of the covers, he was sleeping in his own bed, just as he had said he would.

On his back, hands folded on his broad chest as if ready to be lowered into the grave.

He slept soundly—and didn’t snore. At least, he didn’t snore compared to the noise her father and brothers always made whenever they slept.

They had made it easy to sneak into the house after curfew.

The loud, rumbling snores of the Mithers males drowned out any possible sound she might make while creeping up to her room.

A comforting sense of security and contentment washed across her as she studied the handsome profile of the growly chieftain of Clan MacStrath.

Gryffe was a good man. She could’ve landed in the hands of someone so much worse.

But good man or not, he made her heart hurt, made it burn with such a lonely ache that sometimes she had to swallow hard to get past all that he made her feel.

If she had been brave enough to answer Grennove’s questions about feeling drawn to him, feeling as though she had known him all her life, feeling as though something about him completed the crazy puzzle of her soul, she would have said, yes to all the above.

But she had evaded the questions. She had to—to protect herself.

After all, how could she possibly feel all those things about a man she had just met?

Ishbel had told her she would know when she found her fated mate, but how could she be sure?

She had made so many wrong choices when she’d thought she was following a good instinct, a solid gut feeling.

But sometimes, her gut lied. And a lie that made her decide to settle down in an alternate reality of eighteenth century Scotland would be an epic disaster.

The slow rise and fall of Gryffe’s chest mesmerized her, lulling her into almost going back to sleep.

But she couldn’t. The unrelenting need to pee jabbed at her, warning her she had better pay attention to it soon.

Now that her vision had adjusted to the darkened room, she could see quite well, considering only a single candle burned on the mantelpiece.

If she went slow and used the furniture between the bed and the wooden privacy screen to keep her balance, surely she could make it.

She wasn’t about to wake Gryffe and ask for help, and Inalfi was nowhere to be found.

A wave of guilt washed across her. Poor Inalfi.

Emily hated that she’d gotten the maid into trouble, but she did need to ask the maid about what Gryffe had said about her ability to snuff magic. What exactly did he mean by that?

Ever so slowly, Emily pushed herself upright, bracing for the pain that turned out to be a great deal less brutal than it had been. Thank goodness for that. She’d always had a high pain tolerance, but this one had nearly made her vomit several times.

“What is it, lass? Are ye unwell?”