“Oh, just shut up!”
Feckin’ hell. She was about to cry. He had meant her no harm, merely intended to make his point. “Come here to me, lass.” He pulled her close and tucked her tightly against him. “Hold fast, and close yer eyes.” Breathing her in, he envisioned his bedchamber. “Domus.”
As soon as the familiar scents of leather, fresh linens, and beeswax candles hit him, he opened his eyes. “Let me help ye into the bed, and then I shall call for Grennove. She is the clan healer.”
Emily opened her eyes and went still as a hare that had just spotted a wolf. “Where are we?” she whispered while casting a panicked glance all around the room.
“My keep, but more exactly—my bedchamber. ’Tis the most comfortable of all the rooms. At least, by my thinking, it is.” He gently but firmly attempted to turn her. “To the bed with ye, aye? Then I’ll summon the healer. Dinna fear. I mean ye no harm.”
“I know you would never hurt me,” she murmured so softly he almost missed it. She cleared her throat and stiffened, straightening her spine as if embarrassed by what she had just said. “So, you can do magic. Are you a Weaver too?”
“A Weaver, too?” he repeated, a chilling leeriness making him swallow hard. “Ye are a Weaver, then?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You do know what a Weaver is? You know I am not talking about making baskets or rugs, right?”
“I am not a Weaver.” He would leave it at that for now. If this lass was a Weaver, that complicated things immensely and made his attraction to her even more impossible. Why the devil would Nicnevin choose a Weaver for her ridiculous game of trying to get him to sire an heir? Weavers were not of this world, and while many called his mother the goddess of winter and magic, half his bloodline was still very much mortal. He would never live as long as a Divine Weaver. But if Emily was a Weaver, why hadn’t her leg already healed?
He tucked a finger under her chin and tipped her face higher, peering at her closer. “Ye nay answered my question, lass. Are ye a Weaver?”
The bewilderment and sheer panic in her eyes hit his heart as surely as an arrow.
“I am not a Weaver,” she said. “My great-great grandmother was.” She swayed off balance and tightened her hold on his arm. “You’re right. I need to lie down.”
He yanked back the bedclothes and helped her ease down among the pillows.
Struggling to lean forward, she grimaced as she yanked on the lace of her boot with one hand. “And, of course, it’s knotted.”
“Feckin’ hell, woman. Lie ye back, and I shall rid ye of yer boots.”
She relented with a pained groan, then patted her leg and drew out an odd thin square from a pocket in the seductive black trews that fit her like a second skin. After pecking several times on the gleaming bit of strangeness that was about as large as her hand, she heaved a great sigh and shoved the thing back into her pocket. “Idiot. No cell towers in the eighteenth century.”
Gryffe didn’t comment, as it didn’t seem as though she was speaking to him. As he unlaced her boot, he noted the stitching giving way on one of the seams. “I’ll send this out to Mathy. He can repair it.”
Lying with her arm over her eyes, Emily flipped her hand as if she didn’t care what he did. “Thank you. Who is Mathy? Your cobbler?”
“Nay. Mathy manages my stables. He is the best there is when it comes to working with leather.” With her heavy sweater rucked up, he noted her long, lithe form that flowed into the perfect curve of her hips. Aye, perfection was indeed the word to describe her. Legs long enough to wrap around him and squeeze as he sank into her. The sweater hid her breasts, but he felt sure they were exquisite too. And her face. Surely, she was descended from the goddesses themselves. Elegantly arched brows, high cheekbones, a long slender nose, and whisky eyes filled with fire. She mesmerized him.
As he realized Nicnevin’s spell was about to consume him, he blinked hard and sucked in a deep breath, drawing upon every strength he possessed to break free and regain his sanity. His mother’s glamours were strong, but he had overcome them before and would do so again. When he finally found his one, it would not be because of manipulative magic. He set Emily’s boots aside on the bench at the end of the bed.
“What time are ye from, lass?” Nicnevin had taken him to several eras through the Dreaming, but he hated it. He nay belonged anywhere but here. But not Emily. She did not belong here. By her clothes and her language, she was not of this time.
She scrubbed her face with both hands as if fighting against tears. “Twenty-first century—and I need to get back as soon as possible. I am not good at fitting in where I don’t belong.”
“Everything happens for a reason.” How many times had he scoffed whenever Nicnevin had told him that very same thing? “Have ye any idea how ye came to be here?”
She let her hands drop and stared up at the ceiling with such a look of despair, he almost climbed into the bed and pulled her into his arms to comfort her.
“I’m not so sure I should say,” she said with a heavy sigh. “A lot is at risk if I mess up and say something that might reveal a secret that’s supposed to remain unsaid…” She propped herself up and looked at him, making him ache to join her among the pillows. Her eyes narrowed to critical slits. She was sizing him up. He could feel it. “You said you weren’t a Weaver,” she said, “and yet you used magic to get us from wherever we were to here. And you also seemed to know what a Weaver is. How is that?”
“I am the Grand Chieftain of the Defenders of the Veil.” He clenched his teeth, immediately filled with second thoughts about sharing that he headed the Order of the Veil, the protectors of the blessed Highland weave.
“The Defenders I know, the ones from my time, aren’t able to use magic. Only the Weavers can, and it’s usually the Spell Weavers who manage the more complicated doings.” Her critical look turned to one of disgust. “I am trying to learn because my great-great grandmother was a Master Spell Weaver. Unfortunately, I suck at magic.”
“Suck at magic?”
She huffed. “I catch everything on fire while trying to learn a spell and have only managed to conquer a few of the most basic ones.”
So Ember was an apt name for her. He struggled to keep his amusement hidden. “Magic can be verra difficult.”
