Page 24

J et lag was going to be the death of her.

Unable to sleep, Emma rolled out of the exceedingly comfortable bed in Reilly’s guest room and padded across the floor, pulling the curtain back. The moon bathed the landscape in a bright blue. She caught her breath at the beauty surrounding the cottage.

Reilly was blessed, indeed. He lived down a private drive, surrounded by trees. The drive opened up to the cottage, like something out of a fairy tale. Inside was just as perfect—the slanted walls, uneven floors, bright paint, and, most of all, the thatched roof.

How she adored thatched-roof cottages.

The back yard ( garden , she reminded herself) was marked with a low stone wall that extended from either side of the building and straight back, squaring off to create a neat rectangle of perfectly manicured lawn.

Beyond the far wall was green, as far as she could see, sweeping gracefully over hills, up to the tree line in the distance, perhaps half a mile or more away.

Directly outside the back door was a neatly tilled vegetable garden; empty pots, tools, and baskets lay on the ground, ready for use .

Aidan, thankfully, backed off her a little. Instead of kissing her senseless in the doorway when he showed her the guest room, he kissed her knuckles and gave a small bow.

She loved and hated how that left her even more breathless than a passionate embrace.

And there was the crux of her problem. She stared out the window, more confused than ever. Never had she been involved in such a complicated non-relationship.

Drawing a blanket around her shoulders, Emma carefully unlatched the window and pushed it open. The air whooshed in, and the strands of her hair danced on the wind. She closed her eyes and drew in a strengthening breath.

She had no idea what to do next. She had foolishly opened an emotional door, and while Aidan wasn’t forcing it to remain open, he certainly was refusing to let it slam shut.

Her life was a mess.

A quiet voice caught her attention, and she craned her neck to find its source.

Directly below her window, the back door opened, a shaft of yellow light spilling onto the vegetable garden.

A shadow appeared, growing smaller as Aidan walked out, ending a call on his phone.

He tossed it onto the tiny bistro table on the patio, then drew the sword he’d bought at the auction from its scabbard at his side.

She didn’t realize he brought it with them.

Emma held her breath as he examined it, the steel flashing in the moonlight. He inspected every inch of it, from the hilt to the tip, and then he sat down in the grass, the sword across his lap, a box next to him.

Emma cocked her head, wondering what he was doing. When he pulled out a long metal file from the box, she was intrigued. He slowly dragged the file over first one, then the other edge of the blade, carefully and methodically wiping the metal after each stroke of the file.

He’s restoring it , she realized. She assumed he would get a professional to do that; after all, he paid a hefty sum to possess it. Why take a chance and ruin it?

He pulled a small glass bottle and a large, rectangular stone from the box.

He tipped the bottle and a shiny liquid poured into his hand.

He smoothed it over the stone, then wiped his hand on the grass and picked up his sword again.

He dragged the blade against the stone, wiped it, then repeated the motion.

Her eyes almost popped out of her head when she finally understood how he was restoring the blade.

He was sharpening his sword—using a file, oil, and a whetstone. The same way they did in the Middle Ages.

She watched, fascinated, as he rhythmically rubbed the edge of the blade down the stone.

He paid particular attention to the tip, honing it to a fine point, then carefully flipped the sword over and repeated the sharpening on the opposite edge.

After long minutes, he inspected his work, packed up his supplies, and headed back inside.

Emma stepped back from the window, more confused than ever. Aidan had spent over a half hour performing a medieval task like he’d been doing it the whole of his life. He could also expertly dress himself in an authentic léine, and he fluently spoke an almost unknown form of Gaelic.

The man had so many mysterious layers wrapped around him, Emma wondered if she’d ever know the real Aidan MacWilliam.

Don’t get involved. She closed the window and climbed back into bed, even more confused than when she’d rolled out of it. Your life is too complicated. Adding a relationship—especially with Aidan—would make it even worse.

She knew she was right. But she didn’t understand why she felt so compelled to ignore herself.

It had been a full, blissful month of sightseeing.

Aidan drove her, without complaint, around the beautiful island.

Emma kissed the Blarney Stone, danced after hours in Irish pubs, and roamed the ancient streets of Dublin.

She wandered through Bunratty Castle, listening to the tour guide spout interesting facts in one ear while trying to shush Aidan’s constant commentary in the other.

Even though the tour guide talked mostly about life in the 1800s, he did speak often about medieval life.

Aidan didn’t agree with the man on most things about that; apparently his love of the time period extended further than antiquities.

Emma was impressed by the number of times Aidan quietly corrected the “facts”—and she wondered what his sources were.

She’d love to get her hands on whatever books he clearly read.

She stood in slack-jawed wonder at the Book of Kells, she wandered the grounds of Trinity College, and she meandered across the beautiful, many-hued green fields of Tipperary.

And with each day, she fell a little bit more in love with Ireland…and Aidan MacWilliam.

He made it easy, of course. His words were always followed by action .

Are you chilled, Emmaline? He handed her a stunning Aran sweater from the Blarney Mills.

Who knows when you’ll return to this castle, lass.

Go ahead and have another run up those stairs.

I’ll be right behind you. He caught her as she tripped—again—on the uneven stairs at Dunguaire Castle.

I’ve arranged a private viewing of the Book of Kells.

I thought you might fancy a few hours with it.

He sat quietly at one of the tables in the famous Long Room, surrounded by thousands of manuscripts, patiently waiting for her to go through a selection of pages with one of the staff members.

The man was chivalry personified.

But he made no move to kiss her. He held her hand as they walked from place to place.

He even held her hand as they drove across the country and back again.

He rubbed distracting circles with his thumb, tracing the sensitive parts of her hand, making her hum with pleasure as she worked on documents for the launch of Celtic Connections in the UK and Ireland.

But still, he didn’t kiss her.

Maybe, she thought more than once, and more than a bit ruefully, she had been a little too successful in her speech, back when they first arrived.

As spring slowly turned toward summer, Emma saw more of Ireland than she ever hoped to in her lifetime. Every new place was more beautiful than the last, and she was hard-pressed to think of going back to the States.

Ever.

“I vow to you, he insisted,” Aidan said, resisting the childish urge to roll his eyes.

“I still feel strange living in Reilly’s house while he’s not here,” Emma replied. “We’ve been here for five weeks, and he’s been gone almost all of them.”

Aidan glanced out the back window of Ry’s kitchen, his eyes again scanning the tree line for any sight of his cousin.

Reilly departed a few days after they’d arrived in Dublin, headed back to the 1400s to take care of an issue with Brianagh’s eldest daughter, Claire.

Before he left, Reilly warned Aidan that he might be a long time in returning.

Aidan understood; sometimes Reilly would be gone for a few hours, and other times, weeks.

This time, though, Aidan didn’t begrudge the man and his abilities. He hadn’t any pressing desire to return to the Middle Ages, not when he finally had a reason to stay in the present.

That reason was currently listing all the reasons why she felt guilty about her current situation .

“Emma,” he finally said, holding a hand up. “Relax. You have no deadlines, no bosses demanding your energy. Just you, and me, and wherever you want to go.” As long as we keep a low profile , he silently added, and draw no attention to us, you’re safe.

She blew out a breath, puffing strands of her hair outward. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep ignoring it.”

She smiled then, and Aidan’s heart constricted.

Had any other woman of his acquaintance ever moved him in such ways?

Her laugh, which was frequent now that she was so distanced from her New York life and with no sign of her ex anywhere, was the sweetest sound his ears had ever heard.

And her face softened as the worry lines and tension left her.

If he thought her beautiful before, now, as she settled into Ireland, she was absolutely radiant.

“We’ve discussed this to death. You are on a much-deserved holiday. A sabbatical, if you will. Colin’s in agreement; he wants you fresh-faced and excited, not drawn and dispassionate.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re wrong.”

“And you’re stunning. Finish your breakfast, love, as we’re headed to a special place today.”

Her eyes brightened, and his chest grew tighter. The wonder in those blue depths stirred something in his soul, and though he’d been holding himself back for weeks, his heart was very nearly lost to Emma.

If only she felt the same way.

But, she made her intentions clear. They worked together and went sightseeing together and that was enough for her.