Page 6 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

T he lovely being who called herself Emily went limp and started to fall.

Gryffe swept her up and cradled her like a babe against his chest. “Daren’t ye die on me, woman.

Daren’t ye do it.” He leaned in close to ensure she still breathed.

When he discovered she did, he found that more consoling than he should.

He shook off the feeling. ’Twas probably more of Nicnevin’s infernal meddling.

She had more than likely cast a glamour over this tempting lass to make him believe the dark haired beauty was the one.

He never should have told his mother about his vision.

“Avric, come. Let us get the lass back to the keep so old Grennove can heal her.”

The great black horse obediently ambled closer, then halted. His ears swiveled forward, then flattened back close to his head. He snorted and gave a single hard stomp.

“I shall hold her. I ken well enough that she canna ride because of her injury.”

Avric snorted again, stomped harder, then backed away, shaking his head.

“If I use magic to return to the keep, it will flag Nicnevin. Is that yer wish?”

The stubborn beastie turned away, lifted his tail, and dropped a steaming pile of dung.

“Ye are an arse, Avric. A pure evil arse that I shouldha left with the kelpies where ye belong. Do ye wish to return to the loch this evening or be confined to the stable on dry land?”

The ebony beast shot him a warning glare and bared his teeth.

As a rare hybrid born from the mating of a legendary shire stallion and a fierce kelpie mare, Avric much preferred a loch or a river rather than the stable when Gryffe no longer needed his services for the day.

The horse wheeled about, came in close, and gave the unconscious woman a thorough snuffle.

After taking in her scent, he stared at Gryffe for a long moment, then backed away again.

While Gryffe couldn’t exactly hear the horse’s thoughts, the two had always understood one another and known what the other felt.

Perhaps it was because Gryffe had been the one to save Avric and his dam when they had both hovered near death after Avric’s birth.

Kelpies were never meant to breed with stallions of the land.

Unwilling to leave the pair to die, Gryffe had called out to Nicnevin to save them.

And she had. By mixing Gryffe’s blood with that of the kelpie mare and the rare foal.

Gryffe’s strength had saved them. After all, even though his father was a mere mortal, the chieftain of Clan MacStrath, his mother was the Queen of the Dark Fae, the powerful Unseelie, none other than Nicnevin herself.

“Ye are a stubborn arse,” Gryffe told the horse again as he shifted the lass higher against his chest and took off at a brisk pace.

He would feckin’ walk, before folding time and space and drawing Nicnevin’s attention.

She needed to stay at Court and out of his life.

After all, he was considered the bastard son.

Why did she even bother with him? She had named Roric the prince and heir of the Unseelie, a title his half-brother cherished but rarely spoke of since it tended to make the pureblood mortals a tad nervous.

Roric enjoyed ruling the United Kingdom of Scotland and would do nothing to risk that crown.

A steady thumping behind him, Avric’s plodding walk, made Gryffe shake his head. “Ye’ll not let me ride, but ye will follow along behind me like a dog. Damn ye, Avric. Damn ye straight to hell.”

The horse snorted, and something hit Gryffe square between his shoulders. He halted and turned. “Snot on me again, and I’ll tell Cook to roast yer arse for supper, ye ken?”

The beast bobbed his head and whinnied, laughing in Gryffe’s face. Avric knew Gryffe would never bring harm down upon him.

The lass, Emily, shifted and eked out a strained groan. “Could you put me down, please?” Yet, she clutched the front of his linen shirt as if she would never let it go. “This is killing my leg. Please. Set me down.”

He had no doubt the position was hurting her hip, but she couldn’t walk. “I shall carry ye this way for a while.” He threw her over his shoulder. Her arse in the air would take the tension off her injured joint.

“Are you kidding me? Put me down. I am not a freaking sack of feed.”

He almost smiled. Or at least, he thought it might be a smile tickling at his mouth.

It had been so long since he’d been pleased about anything, he wasn’t rightly sure how it felt anymore.

“This takes the pressure off yer arse. We’ll not be long.

The keep is but a good stretch of the legs from here. ”

She reared up and propped herself on his shoulder so her head wasn’t hanging downward. “Why didn’t you just throw me over your horse like some kind of carcass?”

“Avric took a sniff of ye and decided he would nay give ye a ride.”

“That is not remotely funny.” She squirmed a bit more. “I do not stink.”

Unable to resist, Gryffe turned his head and buried his face in her side, treating himself to a deep inhale.

Damn. She was right. She smelled of warmth and all things good and comforting.

She smelled like a woman he needed in his bed.

Permanently. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to set aside that ridiculous thought and pick up the pace.

“Ye dinna smell foul. All I know is Avric refused to let ye ride. Probably because of yer injury.”

“So you let your horse make all the decisions?”

“Not all. But in this case, he seemed more than a little certain.”

“There is something gross on the back of your coat.”

“Horse snot. He thinks that great fun when he wishes to get his point across.”

“Lovely.” She wriggled again, drawing back from the mess the horse had made. “I really would like to try to walk. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Aye, lass.” He gently eased her down and helped her steady herself on her good leg. “I have seen how ye take care of yerself. How ye landed yerself in the path of a horse, knocked yer arse out of joint, and have no idea how ye got here.”

She glared at him, and he hoped she would never stop. Her eyes were the dark caramel hue of well aged whisky filled with fire.

“Yer name should be Ember —not Emily,” he said before he could stop himself.

She blinked, almost flinching, then bared her teeth as if about to bite him. “I will be out of your hair as soon as possible, Mr. MacStrath. You can bet on it.”

“Gryffe.”

“What?”

“Call me Gryffe since ye are nay a servant, a merchant, or a crofter. Although they tend to call me Chieftain or the MacStrath. I dinna recall them ever saying, mister. ” He kept an arm around her, steadying her as she doggedly tried to hop one step at a time.

“And ye’ll nay be leaving me until ye’re not only healed, but I am also damn sure I can no longer stand the sight of ye.

” Deep down, he knew he would never tire of her.

She drew him in like honey tempting a badger.

Nicnevin must have cast one hell of a glamour on this one.

Feckin’ hell, he wished this attraction was real.

More than that, he wished the beauty felt the same for him.

“You cannot keep me prisoner,” she snapped. She hopped again, then pulled him to a stop. “Wait. I have to rest for a minute. Apparently, I need to add hopping to my daily workout to increase my stamina.”

“I canna keep ye prisoner, eh?” He increased the distance between them but kept hold of her arm so she wouldn’t fall over. “Now is yer chance, my lovely Ember. Run for yer freedom.”

“Oh, just shut up!”

Feckin’ hell. She was about to cry. He had meant her no harm, merely intended to make his point. “Come here to me, lass.” He pulled her close and tucked her tightly against him. “Hold fast, and close yer eyes.” Breathing her in, he envisioned his bedchamber. “ Domus. ”

As soon as the familiar scents of leather, fresh linens, and beeswax candles hit him, he opened his eyes. “Let me help ye into the bed, and then I shall call for Grennove. She is the clan healer.”

Emily opened her eyes and went still as a hare that had just spotted a wolf. “Where are we?” she whispered while casting a panicked glance all around the room.

“My keep, but more exactly—my bedchamber. ’Tis the most comfortable of all the rooms. At least, by my thinking, it is.” He gently but firmly attempted to turn her. “To the bed with ye, aye? Then I’ll summon the healer. Dinna fear. I mean ye no harm.”

“I know you would never hurt me,” she murmured so softly he almost missed it. She cleared her throat and stiffened, straightening her spine as if embarrassed by what she had just said. “So, you can do magic. Are you a Weaver too?”

“A Weaver, too ?” he repeated, a chilling leeriness making him swallow hard. “Ye are a Weaver, then?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You do know what a Weaver is? You know I am not talking about making baskets or rugs, right?”

“I am not a Weaver.” He would leave it at that for now.

If this lass was a Weaver, that complicated things immensely and made his attraction to her even more impossible.

Why the devil would Nicnevin choose a Weaver for her ridiculous game of trying to get him to sire an heir?

Weavers were not of this world, and while many called his mother the goddess of winter and magic, half his bloodline was still very much mortal.

He would never live as long as a Divine Weaver.

But if Emily was a Weaver, why hadn’t her leg already healed?

He tucked a finger under her chin and tipped her face higher, peering at her closer. “Ye nay answered my question, lass. Are ye a Weaver?”

The bewilderment and sheer panic in her eyes hit his heart as surely as an arrow.

“I am not a Weaver,” she said. “My great-great grandmother was.” She swayed off balance and tightened her hold on his arm. “You’re right. I need to lie down.”

He yanked back the bedclothes and helped her ease down among the pillows.