“Aye.”
Such a thing couldn’t possibly be anything more than a romantic legend. “It would be lovely if fated mates truly existed.” She hesitantly twitched a shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just don’t believe in any of that stuff.”
He shifted again, raised himself onto his elbow, and gently turned her to look up at him. “Listen to yer heart. Yer soul.” He tapped her forehead. “Dinna listen with that mind of yers that allows this life’s doubts to taint yer judgement.”
His eyes were aglow with that eerie blue-white light again. She couldn’t resist reaching up to touch his cheek. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
“Good.” He traced the outline of her jaw, then ran his fingers up into her hair, and locked eyes with her. “Let go of yer mind, lass. Let yer heart and soul be yer guide.”
“If I did, what would…” She cut herself off, knowing she didn’t dare finish that sentence. Heart pounding so hard it was difficult to breathe, she touched his face again, tickling her thumbnail through the short bristles of his neatly trimmed beard. It was too soon. She just couldn’t. Not yet.
“Maybe someday,” she whispered, bracing herself for his contempt at the refusal.
“I will gladly accept yer someday with hope and anticipation.” He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and lingered there as if savoring the sensation.
She closed her eyes and shuddered in a deep breath.
“He is safe,” whispered the inner voice she’d heard all her life, the voice that the FBI counselor had labeled as a rare gut instinct, but she preferred to think of as good old female intuition.
“I am yer safe haven,” Mathison said with another kiss to her forehead. “Always, lass. I swear it.”
A not entirely unpleasant eeriness rippled through her. Eyes wide open now, she struggled to make out his expression in the shadows. “My safe haven,” she repeated. “Why would you say that at this particular moment?” It was almost as if he’d heard her inner voice just as loudly as she had.
“Because ye are afraid. I smell it.”
Her old sense of bravado kicked in, giving her the courage to fully face him. Nobody called her afraid—even when she was. “I am not afraid.”
Even in the dimly lit room, she made out his expression that called her a liar.
“I’m not afraid.”
Still propped on his elbow, he smiled down at her. “There is no shame in being afraid, lass. A healthy dose of fear can keep ye alive at times. It’s when ye canna summon the courage to face that fear that makes life difficult.”
Was he teasing her? “I’m not a coward either.”
He laughed with an affectionate softness. “No one could ever call ye a coward.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Any woman brave enough to uproot herself and move to another land to start her life anew is no coward.” He hugged her hand to his chest, letting the strong, steady beat of his heart tickle against the back of it. “Ye’re a fine, fierce woman who merely needs to learn to listen with her heart and soul as well as her mind.”
“So you keep saying.”
“It bears repeating.”
The wind howled with a stranger, louder force, and the cottage shuddered. Mathison pushed up from the pallet and hovered over her and Otto like a human shield. He stared at the bedroom door as if someone or something was about to step through it.
“What is it?” She twisted around to look, but saw nothing but the flickering shadows set to dancing by the fire in the woodstove. “What do you hear?”
“The storm has changed,” he said, sounding as though he spoke more to himself than her. “Stay here.” He launched himself to his feet and charged out the door, closing it behind him.
“Stay here? Seriously? This is my house.” She jumped to her feet, then immediately swayed off balance and hit the floor with the worst attack of nausea she’d ever experienced. Hugging her middle, she curled into a ball and concentrated on deep breaths. In through her mouth. Out through her nose. What in the daylights had just hit her? She swallowed hard against the sour aching at the back of her jaw, the clear warning signal that vomiting was imminent. She couldn’t throw up. Not when she couldn’t even stand and make it to the bathroom. Drenched in a cold sweat, violent shuddering overtook her.
Mathison returned, scooped her up into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. “I am so sorry, Calia. Damn that Mairwen and her meddling. I nay wished it to be this way.” Ever so gently, he placed her in the bed. “Try to rest. ’Twill be better for ye that way. Dinna worry, I shall watch over ye.”
“What are you talking about?” Eyes tightly shut, she curled over onto her side, fighting the disorienting queasiness. “Water. Could I please have a glass of water?” A drink would make everything better. She just needed a sip of water.
“Aye, lass. I’ll fetch it.”
