Page 22 of Time of the Druid (Stones of Scotland #7)
Chapter 22
N orah struggled to keep the smile off her face as she dressed, her limbs slow and languid in the lingering haze of the night before. Her fingers, still slightly trembling, moved through the motions of re-braiding her hair. The pins from the night before were long gone—perhaps lost in the bedsheets or flung aside in a moment of urgency—but she managed to tie off the braid with a soft leather thong, the worn leather supple against her fingertips.
The scent of sleep and ash clung to the air inside the guesthouse, mingling with a faint undertone of crushed lavender from her pillow. The room, lit by slanting bars of morning light filtering through the shutters, felt small and too full of memory. She was smoothing down the blankets, trying to create order from the chaos, when the door creaked open. For a fleeting moment, her pulse kicked up in anticipation—Matthew, back again already?
But it was Jack who stepped inside, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor, a goofy, unmistakably pleased grin spread across his face. Norah blinked at him. In all the time she’d known him, she had never seen the big, gruff security director look so... light.
"Good morning," she said, her eyebrows lifting despite her best efforts to control them. "How was your night? I expected you back a while ago."
Jack just shrugged, the grin not slipping from his face. He set about tidying his side of the guesthouse.
"Are they serving breakfast in the roundhouse yet?" Norah asked.
"They are indeed," he said. "I just came from there myself."
Norah nodded thoughtfully as she folded her blankets into a neat pile.
"Perhaps I’ll go and fetch myself some food."
"Tired after a busy night?" Jack asked, turning to look at her. This time, it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.
Don’t blush, don’t blush.
"I suppose I did dance a lot," Norah said. "Now, if you’ll excuse me..."
"Dancing, is it?" Jack asked. "Come on, Norah. What really happened last night? And is it going to change our mission?"
Oh, God. The mission.
"There’s nothing I need to tell you about," she said shortly.
What could she say? I think I love him. I think I love him so much that the very idea of hurting him makes me feel sick. I can’t breathe at the thought of it. And yet if I protect him, I sign my own death sentence. I’m balancing my life against his, and God help me, I think I’m about to choose him. Would you like to help me ruin everything?
"I don’t buy that," Jack said, eyebrow still lifted.
"Just because you were busy last night doesn’t mean we all were," Norah shot back. "That blonde woman was very pretty, I have to say. Did you enjoy yourself?"
To her utter delight, Jack actually blushed—deeply, his ears turning red and his gaze skittering away like a boy caught stealing sweets. Norah burst into laughter, the kind that came from deep in her belly and bubbled up without restraint. The sight of big, gruff Jack looking so utterly undone was just too good.
"Just as I thought," she said, cackling a little. "Can’t take your own medicine?"
"You’re a tough woman," Jack muttered. "Go and eat your damn breakfast and leave me alone."
Norah left the guesthouse with a laugh still tingling on her lips, the echo of it clinging to her skin like perfume. But it was no match for the morning air—sharp and wet with mist, curling cool fingers around her neck and into her sleeves, setting goosebumps rising along her arms. Autumn pressed in from all sides, a damp hush in the trees and the earthy scent of woodsmoke and sodden leaves rising up from the ground. The warmth she’d carried from the guesthouse drained away with every step, replaced by the cold breath of the season and the uncomfortable prickling of reality reasserting itself.
Her feet led her toward the roundhouse without requiring the involvement of her brain, which was probably for the best. She had a lot to think about.
What was she going to do? How could she fix this?
As best as she could tell, she had three options. One, she could shove her feelings aside and carry on with the plan. Matthew would die, and she would be free. The thought left her feeling sick. Two, she could go back and tell Edmondson that she wouldn’t help him. He would kill her and probably send someone else after Matthew straight away. Also not a great idea. Three, she could stay here and avoid telling Edmondson the truth for as long as possible. Maybe someone else would finally finish him off. Maybe he wasn’t weak enough to travel here himself.
That was a lot of maybes, though. And what would she tell Matthew?
In some ways, that was the most horrifying thought of all. What if this was all on her side, and she was nothing but a one-night stand to Matthew? What if she threw her whole life away on a love that never even existed?
Norah walked into the roundhouse, her mind still clouded with possibilities and doubts. The room was hazy with woodsmoke and warm with the smell of hearth ash and roasted grains, but none of it registered at first—because there he was. Matthew, sat alone at one end of the main table, his shoulders haloed by the soft orange flicker of the central fire. The light caught the gold in his hair and threw shadowed angles across his cheekbones. Norah’s eyes snapped to him instantly, drawn like iron to a lodestone, as if he were the only point of clarity in the dark, smoke-softened chaos of the room.
His head lifted, turning slowly, gaze rising from his bowl—and found her. Their eyes locked with the weight of something inevitable. Norah’s breath caught. It felt as though the air between them thickened, humming with awareness. There was no mistaking the way his expression shifted, softening, a flicker of surprise chased quickly by something deeper. Desire. Recognition. Need.
He couldn’t look away, and neither could she. They were tethered across the crowded space, the noise and movement of the roundhouse falling away into a low, distant hum, like the beat of a drum submerged underwater.
And Norah knew one thing for sure. Whatever decision she made, whatever her future held, she could not do it. She could not kill Matthew.