Page 8 of A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

E mily barely brushed her fingertips across her mouth.

“I have never…what a…what a kiss.” Her lips still tingled like she had just tasted something she’d always longed for but hadn’t known what that thing was until she got it.

What in the world had just happened? She had kissed and been kissed before, but never like that.

Taking care to keep her weight off her left side, she gingerly pushed herself higher among the pile of pillows against the massive oak headboard at her back.

She stared at the bedroom door, half wishing Gryffe would return and half hoping he wouldn’t.

How had she managed to spell herself into an alternate eighteenth century, into the life of a man claiming to be half fairy, and then been totally gobsmacked by his kiss?

Yes. Gobsmacked, one of her favorite new British words.

It perfectly defined what that kiss had done to her.

She huffed a soft laugh. He had said he was half fairy.

Well, that fairy was no lightweight myth that fluttered around with gossamer wings.

This breathtaking alpha male was a conqueror.

A man, half mythical being aside, who took what he wanted.

“No. Not fairy . Fae,” she whispered in case he was still on the other side of the door.

That hard thump against it after he had slammed it shut sounded as though he had fallen back against it.

That consoled her a little bit. The way he’d torn out of the room, he seemed to be as gobsmacked by that powerful kiss as she was.

A frigid breeze gusted in through the partially open window, and rain mixed with sleet pattered against the panes.

He had said it was November—the same month as it currently was in her time.

Mairwen had said all the worlds and timelines the Highland Veil kept separate ran parallel to one another.

It would seem that the same rule applied to alternate realities, too.

Emily wondered if every world, every timeline had an alternate? The sheer enormity of how many levels the Weavers had to work with in their search for fated mates made her head hurt as badly as her rear end. Speaking of which, had she dislocated it as Gryffe suggested, or just badly bruised it?

Teeth clenched against the pain, she brought her sock feet together and compared the length of her legs.

“Still the same. Good. It shouldn’t be dislocated, then.

” A heavy sigh left her as she traced the outline of her cell phone in her pocket.

“I wish I could text Papa.” She drew up her good leg, propped her elbow on her knee, and held her head.

Maybe it was better that she couldn’t text her parents.

They would really freak out about this. But if she could at least text Keeva, Mairwen’s assistant, that would get her out of here.

But texts were out. She was completely disconnected from all she had ever known, and she had never felt so alone in her life.

She stared at the door again. Well…maybe not alone…

but she sure was isolated in her confusion.

Gryffe was so…grumpy bearish, but he didn’t come across as mean.

And his announcement that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until she was healed, and he decided he was sick of her, was kind of exciting.

He was most definitely an assertive male.

That usually rubbed her fur the wrong way and goaded her into challenging any man with that mindset.

But Gryffe was different. It might be fun to poke that bear and make him growl, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for whatever might happen after that.

There was so much in his eyes that both drew her in and pushed her away.

She pressed a hand to her chest and swallowed hard.

Her heart was still pounding from their exchange.

She had to escape this. Get back to Seven Cairns and go home.

Home was safe. Home was normal. Maybe it was even time to move back to Jersey.

Jessa was well settled and could portal to twenty-first century Seven Cairns and video call whenever they felt like a visit.

Jessa had Grant and the babies. Another heavy sigh worked itself free.

Yes. It was time. Emily nodded. She needed to forget about the craziness of Seven Cairns, forget about her great-great grandmother, and head back to Jersey and normal .

But what about Gryffe MacStrath? She closed her eyes tightly against the inner voice that never failed to get her into trouble whenever she listened to it.

“Gryffe MacStrath will get on just fine with his life right here in his own little world.” But that conviction sounded like pretty weak tea even to her, especially when her voice quivered whenever she said his name.

“Gryffe MacStrath,” she repeated louder and firmer, as if demanding he appear out of thin air.

She jumped as the door creaked open, then hissed as fresh agony shot through her behind and down her leg.

“Himself said ye was in a lot of pain,” said a plump, white-haired woman who couldn’t be more than four feet tall. “Add an extra kettle to the hearth, Breenoa. Moist heat will help our lady. Gather the resin cloths to keep the bed dry.”

The much younger Breenoa, tall and gawky, and so thin a strong wind would blow her away, hurried to do the elder’s bidding.

“I be Grennove Cobbledust,” said the gnome-like matron as she kicked a footstool to the side of the bed with the aim and precision of a professional footballer.

With minimal grunting, she climbed up on it and smiled down at Emily.

“I be the healer of Clan MacStrath, and that lass over there be my assistant, Breenoa Swiftsong.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Emily said, somewhat dazed by the women’s unusual names. Were they Fae or human? “I’m Emily. Emily Mithers.”

Breenoa pulled a table closer to the bed and set up a pitcher and bowl along with any number of colored bottles and crocks from a large basket. “We be honored to serve ye, Lady Emily. Himself has been waiting for ye for such a verra long time.” The girl beamed with an adoring smile and bowed.

“Breenoa.” Grennove shot a stern look over the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her bulbous nose. “Run see if Mrs. Thistlebran has chosen a maid yet for our lady, and also ensure there is tea heading this way. No matter what be wrong, a cup of tea never goes amiss.”

The our lady title worried Emily, but she tried to shake it off as a regional thing.

After all, several at Seven Cairns referred to her on a regular basis as our Emily .

“Tea would be lovely,” Emily said, hoping to nudge the oddly fan girlish Breenoa out of the room before the girl dropped to her knees and started worshipping her.

As soon as Breenoa left them, Grennove clucked like a restless hen while sprinkling some sort of yellowish powder into the steaming bowl of water on the table. “Pay her no mind, m’lady. She is verra young.”

“She is fine. Really.” Emily recoiled at the rotten egg odor rising from the basin. “What is that?”

“Dinna fash yerself, m’lady. ’Tis a poultice for bandaging. Not a tonic for drinking.”

“I am glad to hear that.” Emily gingerly shifted and rubbed her left hip. “I think I just bruised it when I landed. I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Bruised it when ye landed,” Grennove repeated while grinding some unknown substance in a mortar. She hugged the chunky stone bowl against her thick middle and grunted as she worked the pestle to crush its contents. “And where did ye fall from, m’lady?”

“I don’t remember,” Emily lied, instinctively feeling it best to be cautious.

Grennove shoved her spectacles higher up the bridge of her nose and squinted at her. “Hit yer head too, then?”

“Could be. I don’t remember that either. I woke up with Gryffe carrying me.” There. That was the truth. At least, most of it was. “He thought my hip might be out of joint, but my legs are the same length, and I haven’t lost any feeling or gone all tingly, so I think it’s just badly bruised.”

The old woman’s face puckered with a more judicious scowl. “Are ye a healer, then?”

“My father was—is. He is a healer. So is my mother. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Mama helps people with their minds.” Emily tapped her temple. “When they are upset or having problems they can’t seem to overcome.”

“Hmm.” Grennove studied her, ever so slightly tilting her head. Her wild, silvery brows knotted over her pale green eyes. “I see.”

The healer didn’t sound as if she saw , but Emily couldn’t help that. It was best she kept things as vague as possible.

“Shed yer trews and show me yer hip,” the matron ordered.

With no small amount of pain, Emily slipped her leggings down as far as she felt necessary for Grennove to examine her hip.

Eventually, she would be forced to don the clothes of this century, but she intended to hang onto her twenty-first century garb as long as possible.

She lightly ran her fingers high on her thigh, closer to the hip joint. “It hurts the worst right here.”

Grennove frowned, then gently laid her pudgy hand on the spot Emily had indicated.

“No bruising yet, but with yer rich coloring, ’twill be harder to see.

Pale skin like mine tells its secrets quickly.

Yer richness is proud and keeps its pain hidden as long as possible.

” She bowed her head and closed her eyes.

“Aye, ye’ve bruised it badly, m’lady. I feel the heat of the injury.

’Twill take days for it to show and even longer for the pain to leave ye.

” She opened her eyes and pinned Emily with a hard look.

“How far did ye fall? Several centuries?”

Did everyone here know about time travel and accept it as an everyday occurrence? Emily stared back at the healer, determined not to blink. “About three, to be exact.”