“Then how come you do it so easily?”
“I am half Unseelie.” He braced himself. Most mortals familiar with the Dark Fae ran screaming when they heard an Unseelie—or even a half Unseelie—was in their midst.
Emily’s sleek, dark brows drew closer together. “What exactly is an Unseelie?”
“My mother is Queen of the Dark Fae, goddess of winter and magic, the magnificent Nicnevin—or so she tells everyone whenever she announces herself at Court.” He wouldn’t add that his meddling mother had also cast a glamour across Emily to make her so unbearably enticing.
“Fae,” Emily repeated slowly, still frowning. Her eyes narrowed even more. “You’re a fairy? Fairies are real?”
He didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. “I am half Fae. My father was a mortal. The previous chieftain of Clan MacStrath.” Nicnevin had told him about the mortal stories of the future that described the Fae, or fairies as Emily had called them, as winged bugs that sprinkled children with some sort of magical dust that made them fly. He was not now nor ever had been a feckin’ bug. “And yes, the Fae are quite real.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t realize fairy was a racial slur.” She primly folded her arms across herself and jutted her chin higher. “I’m a mix of Caribbean, Asian Indian, Belgian, and Cuban. And among that smorgasbord of DNA is my Spell Weaver ancestry. Trust me. I understand racial slurs and would never knowingly use one.” She flinched as she adjusted her position. “I promise. As soon as I’m able, I’ll get back to Seven Cairns. The Weavers there will help me get back to my time and out of yours.”
That infuriated him even more, and he didn’t understand why. It had to be Nicnevin’s feckin’ spell. “What did I tell ye about leaving here?”
She stared at him for a long moment, her confusion appearing to deepen the longer she studied him. “Something about I couldn’t go until I was well, and until you decided whether or not you were sick of me. From your current tone, I think I have already achieved option number two.”
Rather than argue or risk becoming ensnared even tighter in the web of magic that was to trick him into believing she was the one, he stormed across the room and yanked on the bellpull. “Grennove will heal ye, and Mrs. Thistlebran will assign a maid to serve ye.” He pointed at her, stabbing the air with his finger. “Stay put until they get here. I’ll not have ye injuring yerself further, ye ken?”
Her expression taut and stormy, she slowly nodded. As he yanked open the door, she shouted, “Hey!”
While he wasn’t certain why she was bellowing about hay, he stopped and looked back at her.
“Thank you for helping me and for not being some sort of beast and doing unspeakable things,” she said. “I know I could’ve landed myself in a lot worse situation than this, and don’t think I don’t appreciate your kindness.” She drew up and swallowed hard, barely holding back the tears that made her eyes shimmer like rare jewels. “It’s just…complicated, and it really pisses me off when I make a mess that requires more than just me to clean it up.”
Damned if he could fight the temptation any longer. He charged back across the room, tenderly cradled her face between his hands, and claimed the exquisite kiss he had hungered for since first setting eyes on her. His entire being shuddered with the wondrous connection, and it frightened him to the very depths of his soul, making him rip away and flee the place before he said more than he should.
Once safely in the hall, he slammed the door shut and fell back against it, breathing as hard as if he had run the length of the kingdom. He must never do that again. To taste her lips once more would surely be the death of his freedom and his oath to the vision he’d once had, his one true love—a woman hidden in shadows. He had to wait for her. His heart had whispered that he would know her when he found her, his one fated mate.
Chapter 4
Emily barely brushed her fingertips across her mouth. “I have never…what a…what a kiss.” Her lips still tingled like she had just tasted something she’d always longed for but hadn’t known what that thing was until she got it. What in the world had just happened? She had kissed and been kissed before, but never like that.
Taking care to keep her weight off her left side, she gingerly pushed herself higher among the pile of pillows against the massive oak headboard at her back. She stared at the bedroom door, half wishing Gryffe would return and half hoping he wouldn’t. How had she managed to spell herself into an alternate eighteenth century, into the life of a man claiming to be half fairy, and then been totally gobsmacked by his kiss? Yes. Gobsmacked, one of her favorite new British words. It perfectly defined what that kiss had done to her. She huffed a soft laugh. He had said he was half fairy. Well, that fairy was no lightweight myth that fluttered around with gossamer wings. This breathtaking alpha male was a conqueror. A man, half mythical being aside, who took what he wanted.
“No. Not fairy. Fae,” she whispered in case he was still on the other side of the door. That hard thump against it after he had slammed it shut sounded as though he had fallen back against it. That consoled her a little bit. The way he’d torn out of the room, he seemed to be as gobsmacked by that powerful kiss as she was.
A frigid breeze gusted in through the partially open window, and rain mixed with sleet pattered against the panes. He had said it was November—the same month as it currently was in her time. Mairwen had said all the worlds and timelines the Highland Veil kept separate ran parallel to one another. It would seem that the same rule applied to alternate realities, too.
Emily wondered if every world, every timeline had an alternate? The sheer enormity of how many levels the Weavers had to work with in their search for fated mates made her head hurt as badly as her rear end. Speaking of which, had she dislocated it as Gryffe suggested, or just badly bruised it?
Teeth clenched against the pain, she brought her sock feet together and compared the length of her legs. “Still the same. Good. It shouldn’t be dislocated, then.” A heavy sigh left her as she traced the outline of her cell phone in her pocket. “I wish I could text Papa.” She drew up her good leg, propped her elbow on her knee, and held her head. Maybe it was better that she couldn’t text her parents. They would really freak out about this. But if she could at least text Keeva, Mairwen’s assistant, that would get her out of here. But texts were out. She was completely disconnected from all she had ever known, and she had never felt so alone in her life. She stared at the door again. Well…maybe not alone…but she sure was isolated in her confusion.
Gryffe was so…grumpy bearish, but he didn’t come across as mean. And his announcement that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until she was healed, and he decided he was sick of her, was kind of exciting. He was most definitely an assertive male. That usually rubbed her fur the wrong way and goaded her into challenging any man with that mindset. But Gryffe was different. It might be fun to poke that bear and make him growl, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for whatever might happen after that. There was so much in his eyes that both drew her in and pushed her away.
She pressed a hand to her chest and swallowed hard. Her heart was still pounding from their exchange. She had to escape this. Get back to Seven Cairns and go home. Home was safe. Home was normal. Maybe it was even time to move back to Jersey. Jessa was well settled and could portal to twenty-first century Seven Cairns and video call whenever they felt like a visit. Jessa had Grant and the babies. Another heavy sigh worked itself free. Yes. It was time. Emily nodded. She needed to forget about the craziness of Seven Cairns, forget about her great-great grandmother, and head back to Jersey and normal.
But what about Gryffe MacStrath? She closed her eyes tightly against the inner voice that never failed to get her into trouble whenever she listened to it. “Gryffe MacStrath will get on just fine with his life right here in his own little world.” But that conviction sounded like pretty weak tea even to her, especially when her voice quivered whenever she said his name. “Gryffe MacStrath,” she repeated louder and firmer, as if demanding he appear out of thin air.
She jumped as the door creaked open, then hissed as fresh agony shot through her behind and down her leg.
“Himself said ye was in a lot of pain,” said a plump, white-haired woman who couldn’t be more than four feet tall. “Add an extra kettle to the hearth, Breenoa. Moist heat will help our lady. Gather the resin cloths to keep the bed dry.”
The much younger Breenoa, tall and gawky, and so thin a strong wind would blow her away, hurried to do the elder’s bidding.
“I be Grennove Cobbledust,” said the gnome-like matron as she kicked a footstool to the side of the bed with the aim and precision of a professional footballer. With minimal grunting, she climbed up on it and smiled down at Emily. “I be the healer of Clan MacStrath, and that lass over there be my assistant, Breenoa Swiftsong.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Emily said, somewhat dazed by the women’s unusual names. Were they Fae or human? “I’m Emily. Emily Mithers.”
