“I am not stripping down in front of you,” Emily said with a feralness that made him want her even more. Damn, the woman made him ache for her in every possible way. But he had withstood Nicnevin’s spells before. He’d withstand this one as well.
“Ye’ll not be stripping down in front of me, my lady.” He turned back to the cabinet and refilled his glass. “Ye will be stripping down behind me. Inalfi—proceed.” When he heard no movement, he rapped a knuckle on the cabinet. “Shall I turn to inspect the progress the two of ye are making?”
“No—you shall shut the hell up before I hobble over there and throw that drink in your face.”
He snorted, the closest he ever came to laughing anymore. “Now, now…we dinna waste good whisky around here, my fiery ember. Would ye care for a glass to warm ye? ’Twill also help numb the pain in yer arse.”
“Drink more, then, because you are currently the biggest pain in my arse.”
And then a hearty laugh did burst free of him, startling him with how good it felt. At that sudden realization, the mirth left him, but didn’t fade completely. How long had it been since he had laughed? How long had it been since he’d even smiled? He shook away the foolish ponderings. What the devil did it matter? He selected one of the finer glasses from the tray on the cabinet and filled it with a prudent amount of whisky, then topped off his own. He squared his shoulders and stared straight ahead, ready to turn. “Are ye dressed yet, my lady?”
“Yes.”
The sullen fury in her voice threatened to make him smile. Nicnevin’s spell, he silently chanted to keep himself in check, but as soon as he turned and beheld Emily in his bed, in her thin shift untied at the throat as if she were his eager bride, it nearly undid him. Such a glorious woman. Why could she not be his one?
With forced nonchalance, he sauntered over to the bed and held out her glass. “Yer whisky, my lady.”
She glared at him, eyes glowing with even richer heat than the golden liquid in the glass. With a flare of her delicate nostrils, she accepted it from him but didn’t drink.
“I’ll be fetching our lady more tea with Grennove’s herbs, if that be to yer liking, my chieftain?” Inalfi said. “Be it all right for me to leave the room and do so?”
“Yes.” Gryffe didn’t break from Emily’s damning glare. “I shall be here till morning. Bring a tray of fruits, cheese, and meats as well, since we shall miss our supper. Have Cook send up her best and make the lads help ye, ye ken?”
“Yes, my chieftain.” Inalfi hurried out of the room.
After a sip of whisky, he pulled his favorite chair from its place beside the hearth and set it close to the bedside table. The leather cushions squeaked and groaned as he settled into the chair’s depths. He offered Emily a nod. “Whisky does ye more good if ye drink it rather than just hold it ’twixt yer hands.”
She tore her focus from him and stared down at the drink, gently swirling it until the sparkles of light danced through the golden nectar. After the barest sip and while still glaring at the glass, she asked, “What did you mean by what you said?”
Her voice had lost its edge. A hesitancy echoed through it, making it quite clear which of his statements she meant. The problem was—he had not said those words willingly. Nicnevin’s glamour had pulled them from his lips. The only way to keep his oath to his one was to confess the truth to Emily. “It was not I who spoke those words. I did not say ye belong with me.”
An endearing bewilderment came over her, drawing her sleek black brows closer together as she stole a glance at him. “I distinctly heard you say that.”
“Aye—I did speak the words, but ’twas Nicnevin’s spell that pulled them from me. She has placed a glamour upon ye.”
Emily eyed him as if he’d sprouted a horn out of the top of his head. “She has done what?”
“A glamour. Placed it upon ye. Have ye not studied glamours yet?”
“I’ve heard of them—in movies and stuff—but I don’t think they are part of a Weaver’s arsenal, or Ishbel would’ve told me. Are you telling me they’re real?”
“Aye, quite real. Ye’re nay the first that Nicnevin sent to fool me.”
She straightened and squared her shoulders as if insulted. “A lot of women have dropped in your horse’s path, have they? Are you as charming to all of them as you are to me?”
“I easily sent them back to where they belonged. Their glamours were weak.” He shook his head and fortified his courage with another sip of whisky. The slow burn down his gullet gave him strength. “Ye appear to be different, though. The spell she placed upon ye is strong.”
After another sip of her drink, Emily seemed even more bewildered as she stared upward. “Wouldn’t I know it if Nicnevin had done that to me? Wouldn’t the Weavers sense her presence in Seven Cairns? They’re pretty secure there. They sense magic whenever it’s used.”
He hadn’t taken that into consideration. Emily’s Weaver ancestry might make a difference. But her bloodline had to be weak. After all, if she had been a pureblood Weaver, she would’ve already healed. Unless—he had heard stories of the goddesses dabbling in the lives of Weavers, all for the greater good and the strength of the Highland Veil. Above all else, it had to be protected, or every world, every timeline, and reality would plunge into unbearable chaos.
“Have ye known of yer Weaver’s blood all yer life?” He flinched for her as she shifted positions and appeared to still be in quite a bit of pain. “Drink more whisky, lass. Trust me, it will help.”
“I don’t want to become too…” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Compliant.”
“Compliant?”
She pinned him with a pointed glare. “You said you were sleeping in this bed tonight—remember?”
