The high-pitched squeak of a door’s hinges filtered through her misery. Trish eased her head to the right, struggling to pull one swollen eyelid open just a slit. “Who is it?” The words stuck in her parched throat. She croaked them free, pushed them past her cracked lips then immediately wished she hadn’t. A fresh wave of pain exploded through her skull and vibrated down her spine.
“Don’t talk, Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s face swam into view. The weight of his tiny hand patted with a reassuring touch against her bare shoulder. “Just close yer eyes and listen. I know it hurts ye whenever ye talk or move.”
What a good boy.Trish relaxed her eye closed and straightened her head back into the damp dent on the pillow. She must be getting worse. She couldn’t imagine fully opening both eyes much less sitting up in the bed. Poor Ram. Before she died, she had to find a way to convince the little fellow that he mustn’t blame himself. Everything happened for a reason. Apparently, this was just the way she was meant to go.
A large calloused hand scooped under her palm and gently lifted it off the pillowed mattress. Warmth. The hand supporting hers radiated a comforting warmth into her freezing hand. A second hand folded over the top, rubbing a work-roughened thumb across the ridges of her aching knuckles. Trish squeezed the hand. Whoever it was, their heat felt good, seemed to lessen the pain in her bones.
“Auntie Trish.” Ramsey’s voice floated through the haze of pain ravaging through her head. Trish struggled to hear it better. Ramsay’s voice could be her anchor. For his sake, she had to hold on. She concentrated on the hand holding hers, mustering up enough strength to clench the calloused fingers with a trembling squeeze.
“She heard ye, lad. She just squeezed my hand.”
A deeper voice? Trish’s mind hitched trying to register on the soothing baritone rolling its “r’s” in her ear. It wasn’t Latharn. She knew his voice. Who was in the room with Ramsay?
“Auntie Trish. Keagan and I are going to join our powers and make ye feel better. Ye dinna have to do a thing but lay verra still and relax. Keagan says ’tis the only way for ye to get to feelin’ better. But we gotta have yer full permission or the magic won’t work.”
Trish eased in another painful breath, mulling over Ramsay’s words as they faded in and out of the painful fog clouding her mind. Magic. Spell. Feel better. Sounded like a definitehell yeahto her. Trish swallowed against the dryness scratching her throat, wincing as a sharp jolt of fresh agony sliced through her chest. If the spell didn’t work, she would die. Either way, this endless torment would finally be over.
“Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s voice grew louder, closer to her ear. “If ye agree to the magic with all yer heart, squeeze Maxwell’s hand.”
Maxwell? Confusion muddied the fog wrapped around her consciousness. Who the hell was Maxwell? A choking pressure inflamed her lungs. She needed more air. Drawing in a shaking breath, Trish focused what little strength she had into her right hand.Lordy, the tiniest movement took so much effort.She concentrated on the calloused hand cradling hers and squeezed.
“She agrees.”
Was that Maxwell? Trish felt her body grow lighter; the pain surged with an unbearably strong stab then ebbed to a less searing throb, undulating like a cruel tormenting wave.
Light. Soothing light flooded into her mind, a golden stream of shimmering yellows and blazing oranges flowed through her, chasing away every last remnant of pain. Trish sucked in a deeper breath. Finally. A decent breath of air. She almost laughed aloud. A lungful of oxygen never felt so good. Directly in front of her, suspended against a backdrop of stars, a flowing cloud of iridescent particles swirled into the glowing shape of a smiling, bearded man.Damn.Had she finally died and was being greeted by a hairy angel?
Trish patted her body; her hands passed through her chest and stirred the shimmering air behind her.Holy crap!She must be dead. She peered closer at the man up ahead. Why did he seem so familiar?
The man’s smile widened as he held out his hand. His translucent palm glowed with a blinding orb of blue-white light as though fired by a mysterious arc welder.
Trish drew closer. She’d never seen an angel before and this one seemed so…welcoming. As she floated across the starlit void, the vision of the man sharpened, focused clearer into view. Trish stopped. Since when did an angel wear a kilt…and sport a full reddish-brown beard?
The angel smiled and beckoned her forward while still holding out his hand.
He did seem nice enough. Trish floated forward a bit farther then stopped again. She couldn’t leave until she had some sort of promise that someone would reassure Ramsay. “I can’t go with you until I know Ramsay is okay. I don’t want him to blame himself.”
The man nodded agreement with a single dip of his chin, then extended his glowing hand again.
Wow.Who would’ve thought dying could be so painless? Trish floated forward another few feet, the closer she drew to the welcoming man; the more pleasurable the pulsating warmth felt coursing through her veins. She relaxed, took in a deep breath, and smiled back at him. He did have the nicest eyes. They crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled as though he were about to laugh aloud. And he seemed so friendly, making her feel as though she’d known him since the beginning of time.
He took a step forward, met her halfway, then bent and scooped up her hand. As Trish wrapped her fingers around his glowing palm, her vision exploded into a cloud of blinding white sparks, electrifying heat surged through her, then everything faded to black.
ChapterSeven
The faintest tickle teased across the end of one nostril. Trish wiggled her nose, rubbed it against the back of her hand, then buried her face into the furry warmth cradled against her head.Pain-free warmth.Trish dozed back into oblivion. Another tickle assaulted the end of her nose, threatening to trigger a sneeze.
Batting away the persistent offender, Trish stretched, inhaled a deep lung-expanding breath and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She laced her fingers into the tight nest of curly hair springing against her face.Hair?
Trish opened her eyes to a mountainous mound of chest coated with a lush carpeting of reddish-brown hair. She sprang backward toward the far side of the bed, digging and kicking at the covers. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?”
The man didn’t bother opening his eyes, just rolled toward Trish and beckoned with an extended arm. In a drowsy voice, mumbled against the pillows, he motioned toward his chest. “Ye know me, lass. Now quit yer fussin’ and come over here. ’Tis wicked cold in this room and I’d planned on sleeping a bit longer.”
Trish settled her back against the bone-chilling cold of the stone wall, planted her feet dead center of the furry expanse of chest and shoved.
As his naked body slid over the edge of the bed, Maxwell’s eyes popped open. He hit the floor with a heavy thud followed by several muttered words that Trish was fairly certain were Gaelic profanity. Rising above the side of the oversized mattress, Maxwell’s sleepy expression changed to one of irritated confusion. “Dammit, Trish! Why the hell did ye do that?”
“You know my name?” Trish scooted as far back against the wall as she could manage, yanking all the covers of the bed up around her naked body and wadding them under her chin. How did he know her name?Holy crap.She was naked. He was naked. They’d been in bed together.Dammit.When had she gotten that drunk, and what the devil had she done? “Who the hellareyou?”
