Page 61 of A Rogue in Twilight

He understood. He felt it too. Only he and his twin sister had ever had such a tie, but now—was it possible to love someone so quickly, trust them so completely?

“Come away,” she whispered, drawing him into shadows away from the window. “We should not be here. We must not watch him.”

“He works the loom like the devil himself. What is it?”

She sighed. “It is the secret of his weaving. He guards it. We must leave.” She tugged at his arm.

“That pace is inhuman.” He glanced through the window again, from a hidden angle. As if in a whirlwind, Donal snatched the new roll of tartan from the loom, set the frame, and began anew, all at a steady and astonishing speed.

“It is how he does it. It is how he produces excellent cloth very quickly.”

“I watched you today at the loom. You were all skill and grace.” He set his arms around her. “But this is unearthly.”

“That is true.”

A chill slid down his spine. “Please explain.”

“It is the fairy gift upon him,” she murmured. “Years ago, he was given the fairy gift, the ability to weave a month’s work in an evening.”

“Go on,” he said skeptically. “A fairy gift?”

“A kind of spell.”

“Away wi’ you,” he said gently. “I did not have that much whisky, lass.”

Her eyes were wide and sincere. “It is due to the whisky you drank that you can see this tonight.”

“I am not fou,” he jested. “No’ that fou.” But she was utterly serious.

“Listen! The fairy brew lets some of us see fairy magic. Without that, you might simply see the man at his usual weaving.”

He frowned. “Your grandfather said your gift of Sight came from the fairies. I thought it was just another term for what some Highland folk can do.”

“Some are gifted by the fairies at birth. Grandda insists I was.”

Everything in him wanted to deny what he heard. Yet he felt a strange and almost dreadful sense—what if it was true and real? The small hairs lifted on his arms, on his neck. “What do you mean?”

“I am a good weaver, and can make a length of tartan in a few days. When the magic comes over him like this, Grandda can make a dozen plaids in a night,” she said. “I wonder if he wanted you to see this. He gave you the fairy brew that he shares with noone but me. And then he set to the weaving where anyone might see him.”

“That was deliberate?”

“Aye, he would do that. He wants to pull you to us, you see.”

“I see,” he said slowly.

“But we will not let him know you were here, aye? Only I know, and Peggy Graham too, but she prefers to ignore it.”

“I would prefer that too. Any moment now I shall wake in my bed with a thick head from whisky.” He paused. “Would you want to be there and wake together?” He drew her closer. “We could arrange that with a vicar.”

“Hush you,” she murmured, smiled, and set a finger to his lips. Then she took his face between her hands, lifted on her toes, and kissed him.

Slow, tender, surprise and delight, the kiss sank through him, crown to sole. His body surged, craved. He caught her by the waist, dipped his head, kissed her hard and sure until she arched against him. Then she pulled back.

“That was very real,” she whispered.

“So is this.” He traced his thumb along the delicious weight of her breast.

“Jamie,” she breathed, pressing against him.