Page 7 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

Struggling to lean forward, she grimaced as she yanked on the lace of her boot with one hand. “And, of course, it’s knotted.”

“Feckin’ hell, woman. Lie ye back, and I shall rid ye of yer boots.”

She relented with a pained groan, then patted her leg and drew out an odd thin square from a pocket in the seductive black trews that fit her like a second skin.

After pecking several times on the gleaming bit of strangeness that was about as large as her hand, she heaved a great sigh and shoved the thing back into her pocket.

“Idiot. No cell towers in the eighteenth century.”

Gryffe didn’t comment, as it didn’t seem as though she was speaking to him. As he unlaced her boot, he noted the stitching giving way on one of the seams. “I’ll send this out to Mathy. He can repair it.”

Lying with her arm over her eyes, Emily flipped her hand as if she didn’t care what he did. “Thank you. Who is Mathy? Your cobbler?”

“Nay. Mathy manages my stables. He is the best there is when it comes to working with leather.” With her heavy sweater rucked up, he noted her long, lithe form that flowed into the perfect curve of her hips.

Aye, perfection was indeed the word to describe her.

Legs long enough to wrap around him and squeeze as he sank into her.

The sweater hid her breasts, but he felt sure they were exquisite too.

And her face. Surely, she was descended from the goddesses themselves.

Elegantly arched brows, high cheekbones, a long slender nose, and whisky eyes filled with fire. She mesmerized him.

As he realized Nicnevin’s spell was about to consume him, he blinked hard and sucked in a deep breath, drawing upon every strength he possessed to break free and regain his sanity.

His mother’s glamours were strong, but he had overcome them before and would do so again.

When he finally found his one , it would not be because of manipulative magic.

He set Emily’s boots aside on the bench at the end of the bed.

“What time are ye from, lass?” Nicnevin had taken him to several eras through the Dreaming, but he hated it. He nay belonged anywhere but here. But not Emily. She did not belong here. By her clothes and her language, she was not of this time.

She scrubbed her face with both hands as if fighting against tears. “Twenty-first century—and I need to get back as soon as possible. I am not good at fitting in where I don’t belong.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” How many times had he scoffed whenever Nicnevin had told him that very same thing? “Have ye any idea how ye came to be here?”

She let her hands drop and stared up at the ceiling with such a look of despair, he almost climbed into the bed and pulled her into his arms to comfort her.

“I’m not so sure I should say,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“A lot is at risk if I mess up and say something that might reveal a secret that’s supposed to remain unsaid…

” She propped herself up and looked at him, making him ache to join her among the pillows.

Her eyes narrowed to critical slits. She was sizing him up.

He could feel it. “You said you weren’t a Weaver,” she said, “and yet you used magic to get us from wherever we were to here. And you also seemed to know what a Weaver is. How is that?”

“I am the Grand Chieftain of the Defenders of the Veil.” He clenched his teeth, immediately filled with second thoughts about sharing that he headed the Order of the Veil, the protectors of the blessed Highland weave.

“The Defenders I know, the ones from my time, aren’t able to use magic.

Only the Weavers can, and it’s usually the Spell Weavers who manage the more complicated doings.

” Her critical look turned to one of disgust. “I am trying to learn because my great-great grandmother was a Master Spell Weaver. Unfortunately, I suck at magic.”

“Suck at magic?”

She huffed. “I catch everything on fire while trying to learn a spell and have only managed to conquer a few of the most basic ones.”

So Ember was an apt name for her. He struggled to keep his amusement hidden. “Magic can be verra difficult.”

“Then how come you do it so easily?”

“I am half Unseelie.” He braced himself. Most mortals familiar with the Dark Fae ran screaming when they heard an Unseelie—or even a half Unseelie—was in their midst.

Emily’s sleek, dark brows drew closer together. “What exactly is an Unseelie?”

“My mother is Queen of the Dark Fae, goddess of winter and magic, the magnificent Nicnevin—or so she tells everyone whenever she announces herself at Court.” He wouldn’t add that his meddling mother had also cast a glamour across Emily to make her so unbearably enticing.

“Fae,” Emily repeated slowly, still frowning. Her eyes narrowed even more. “You’re a fairy? Fairies are real?”

He didn’t know whether to be insulted or not.

“I am half Fae. My father was a mortal. The previous chieftain of Clan MacStrath.” Nicnevin had told him about the mortal stories of the future that described the Fae, or fairies as Emily had called them, as winged bugs that sprinkled children with some sort of magical dust that made them fly.

He was not now nor ever had been a feckin’ bug. “And yes, the Fae are quite real.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t realize fairy was a racial slur.

” She primly folded her arms across herself and jutted her chin higher.

“I’m a mix of Caribbean, Asian Indian, Belgian, and Cuban.

And among that smorgasbord of DNA is my Spell Weaver ancestry.

Trust me. I understand racial slurs and would never knowingly use one.

” She flinched as she adjusted her position.

“I promise. As soon as I’m able, I’ll get back to Seven Cairns.

The Weavers there will help me get back to my time and out of yours. ”

That infuriated him even more, and he didn’t understand why. It had to be Nicnevin’s feckin’ spell. “What did I tell ye about leaving here?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her confusion appearing to deepen the longer she studied him. “Something about I couldn’t go until I was well, and until you decided whether or not you were sick of me. From your current tone, I think I have already achieved option number two.”

Rather than argue or risk becoming ensnared even tighter in the web of magic that was to trick him into believing she was the one, he stormed across the room and yanked on the bellpull.

“Grennove will heal ye, and Mrs. Thistlebran will assign a maid to serve ye.” He pointed at her, stabbing the air with his finger.

“Stay put until they get here. I’ll not have ye injuring yerself further, ye ken? ”

Her expression taut and stormy, she slowly nodded. As he yanked open the door, she shouted, “Hey!”

While he wasn’t certain why she was bellowing about hay, he stopped and looked back at her.

“Thank you for helping me and for not being some sort of beast and doing unspeakable things,” she said.

“I know I could’ve landed myself in a lot worse situation than this, and don’t think I don’t appreciate your kindness.

” She drew up and swallowed hard, barely holding back the tears that made her eyes shimmer like rare jewels.

“It’s just…complicated, and it really pisses me off when I make a mess that requires more than just me to clean it up. ”

Damned if he could fight the temptation any longer.

He charged back across the room, tenderly cradled her face between his hands, and claimed the exquisite kiss he had hungered for since first setting eyes on her.

His entire being shuddered with the wondrous connection, and it frightened him to the very depths of his soul, making him rip away and flee the place before he said more than he should.

Once safely in the hall, he slammed the door shut and fell back against it, breathing as hard as if he had run the length of the kingdom.

He must never do that again. To taste her lips once more would surely be the death of his freedom and his oath to the vision he’d once had, his one true love—a woman hidden in shadows.

He had to wait for her. His heart had whispered that he would know her when he found her, his one fated mate.