Page 3 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

“The complication of a relationship?” Ishbel nodded. “I see now. Ye have been burnt by that fire before and still feel a bit singed, I reckon. Is that not what ye worked so hard to help yer Jessa overcome? The complication of a relationship that had soured?”

“Enough therapy, Ishbel. Shall we get started?” Emily jumped up from the bench, strode to the center of the room, and bounced in place while flexing her fingers. “What spell are we working on today? Same one as yesterday?”

Ishbel’s eyes narrowed with a displeased glare. “I doubt verra much ye can manage the serenity spell today any better than ye managed it yesterday. The thatching on Innis’s cottage is still smoking.”

Emily rolled her shoulders and stretched her tensed neck muscles by tipping her head from side to side. “I apologized for that and even made it rain to put out the fire.”

“I was the one who made it rain, lass, and shielded the rest of the village from the lightning ye conjured with yer weather spell.”

“I’ll do better today.” And she would. She would concentrate. Clear her mind and her heart, and swim with the energies as if she were a magical dolphin. She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I promise.”

Ishbel did not appear convinced, but she nodded for Emily to proceed.

Pulling in a deep cleansing breath, Emily closed her eyes and struggled to calm her thoughts—never an easy task, even on a good day.

She had always considered it a strength, the way her mind jumbled with limitless possibilities, and prided herself on the ability to juggle any number of ideas while handling whatever needed to be handled in the forefront.

It was simply a matter of channeling all her lively internal wiring into successfully firing on all cylinders at the same time.

Unfortunately, magic was a greedy energy that demanded her full focus, or at least her version of focus.

As a child, her teachers had labeled her with all the usuals: ADHD, hyperactive, dyslexic, neurodiverse, or just plain difficult.

Thankfully, her psychiatrist mother and internal medicine physician father had lovingly embraced her unique way of thinking and refused to allow the education system to make her feel ashamed or ostracized.

But even though she had thrived and amazed them with her brilliance, as her father had always said, she still struggled when it came time to focus on one finite thought and block out all the others.

Magic was hard, and hard frustrated her.

How dare that energy not cooperate with her way of thinking!

“Yer aura is flaring red, Emily. Rage will poison yer power. Go to yer vision and rid yerself of it.”

“My vision,” Emily repeated calmly, even though she wanted to tell Ishbel to be quiet and let her work this out for herself.

That would be rude, and Ishbel didn’t deserve rude.

The Weaver had always been patient and kind.

Emily counted her breaths, concentrating on slowing them while bringing forth the memory of a pristine white beach she had enjoyed while visiting the island of Saint John in the U.S.

Virgin Islands. She returned to the waters that had been bluer than the bluest crayon in the jumbo crayon box she had always prized as a child.

The gentle shush of the waves stroked the shore like a devoted lover.

A gentle breeze tickled across her as she basked in the warmth of the tropical sun after a nice, long swim.

Her heart rate slowed, and breathing came easier.

The impossible to explain feeling she needed, the relaxing fluidity of centering herself, flowed through her.

“ Tranquillitas ,” she whispered, envisioning herself as a serene being floating up into the clouds.

“Emily!”

Ishbel’s panicked screech exploded through her like an electrical jolt. Emily hit the ground. Hard. The magic turned on her and attacked with a fury. She thrashed to be free of the painful energy searing through her. If she didn’t release it, she would surely burst into flames. “Stop it! Leave me!”

“Feckin’ hell!”

Clods of dirt and grass showered her as a monstrous horse leapt over her.

Instinctively, she curled into a ball and covered her head.

Thankfully, the fiery barbs of mystical energy nipping at her bones had eased, but now she was in the middle of a field somewhere.

And she had dropped herself into the path of somebody riding a horse.

Damn, magic! She tried to push herself to her feet, but agony knifed through her hip and knocked her back down. “Shit!”

Head pillowed on her arms, she pulled in several deep breaths, fighting the horrendous pain and trying not to give in to the nausea it stirred. Then she opened her eyes. Whatever damage she had done to her hip was the least of her worries.

A very large, angry man had alighted from the horse and was headed her way.

She didn’t know him, and that meant she had spelled herself somewhere away from Seven Cairns.

Wasn’t that just freaking wonderful? Then she noticed his clothing and clenched her teeth even tighter.

From his manner of dress, the twenty-first century was not his time.

The where of her landing was no longer the larger problem—the when was.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed under her breath. Now, what was she going to do?

His worn leather boots rose to his knees, and with every forceful step, his kilt molded itself across the muscular powerhouse of his long legs.

His impressively broad shoulders were encased in a black wool coat that didn’t come close to matching the sooty darkness of his shoulder length hair and the short beard that enhanced the angular lines of his face.

The coldness living in his flinty stare made her wonder if he was going to kill her.

This man made mountains look small. She might’ve held her own when it came to tussles with her five older brothers, but she would never stand a chance against this guy.

“I am sorry,” she blurted out, instinctively raising an arm as if that would somehow protect her from his wrath. “I didn’t mean to land in your way. I didn’t mean to land here at all.”

Silent and grim as death, he stopped, then crouched in front of her, eyes narrowing as he raked his furious gaze across her.

Maybe he didn’t speak English? He looked like a Scot.

An eighteenth century Scot, in fact. His clothing reminded her of what Jessa’s husband, Grant, always wore.

Had she sent herself back in time? If she had, she prayed she had hit Jessa and Grant’s 1786 timeline.

“Uhm…I’m Emily. And again, I am really sorry. Is your horse okay?”

The man’s baleful expression darkened even more. He tipped his head to the side as if struggling to decide what species she was. “My horse is Avric—not Okay. ”

“Sorry.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Jessa had told her about the problem of using modern words in a different time and the confusion they caused.

She would have to filter herself more carefully.

“I’m Emily,” she said again, as if he might’ve missed that, even though he knelt within a foot of her. “Would you mind telling me the date?”

“The date?”

His hard eyes reminded her of onyx, or black quicksilver, if there was such a thing, or maybe some sort of dark molten ore.

A sudden shiver stole through her along with an unmistakable certainty that he meant her no harm.

In fact, she felt as if she had met him before.

That was pure crazy. She didn’t know this guy.

How could she know on the deepest level imaginable that he wouldn’t hurt her?

“Today’s date,” she said, flinching at the quiver in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried to push herself to a sitting position, only to cry out as pain burned through her hip.

“Ye are injured.” His deep voice washed across her, making her catch her breath. “Where are ye hurt?”

“The date?” She had to know the date. He couldn’t possibly understand how important that was—way more important than whatever was wrong with her backside.

“Late November, I think. I dinna ken for certain the day.” He leaned closer. “Where are ye hurt?” he repeated with a gentle sternness that clearly said he wanted an answer.

“My pride. I landed on it.” She gingerly rested her hand on the joint of her left hip. “And the year is?”

“1786.” He tipped his chin higher, as if daring her to lie. “What of it?”

“Thank goodness. 1786. You don’t happen to know Grant MacAlester, do you?” The lack of recognition in his eyes disappointed her immensely. Where the devil had she landed? “The village of Seven Cairns? MacAlester Craig?”

Still scowling, but maybe he was one of those who always scowled, he shook his head. “Is Grant MacAlester yer husband, then? Are ye running from him?” The growling ferocity rumbling through his voice surprised her.

“No. He’s my friend’s husband. I thought you might know him.” She shifted on the cold, hard ground, hoping she could convince her rear end to let her sit upright this time. It did not. “Shit!”

The glowering Highlander’s expression softened somewhat, but he still didn’t smile. “Ye’ll not be able to ride with that injury.”

“Can you just help me stand? I don’t like being lower while I’m trying to have a conversation with someone. It’s like I’m a rabbit in a trap or something.”

He didn’t move. Just studied her, sweeping his gaze from the top of her head to her feet once again.

“Is that a no, then?”

“I think I should carry ye. Yer arse may be out of joint.”

She bit her tongue to keep from firing off a smart remark. Her entire life had been out of joint for a while now. “Just help me stand, and we’ll go from there, Mr…?”

“MacStrath—Chieftain Gryffe MacStrath of the Midlands. Ye may call me Gryffe .” He caught her by the shoulders and swept her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a blade of grass.