“Is that a yes or a no?” His eyes crinkle with humor, transforming him from roughened fighter to mischievous young man.
Mostly, it transformsme. Makes me want to laugh at myself. Lean into him. Smile along.
Impossible.
Everything about this is impossible. I steel myself. “It’s a yes,” I say, making my voice cold. I push my bowl away, spin it, then pull it back. “Isn’t there something more we could be doing to get me home? Making a talisman, gathering herbs,something?”
His expression dims. “I’m doing all I can. Do you nae trust me?”
A breath whooshes from me. “Trust doesn’t come easily for me.” Unable to hold his heavy, seeking gaze, I stare blindly across the room. “I’m not used to depending on other people.” I huff a humorless laugh. “For obvious reasons.”
“I’ll guard your life with my own,” he says quietly. “I swear it.”
“I know you will.” That’s the problem.
I steal a glance at Callum. His shirt tugs taut along his bicep as he leans against the table, his nervous hands making a mess of his dark hair. He’s such an odd mix of boy and man. Fierce but vulnerable, gentle yet unyielding.
If something were to snuff out his inner light, cutting him down before his life had even really begun?
“Hamish seems extra out to get you,” I whisper. “I’m worried he might do something really bad now that heknows we’re close. If something happened to you, I…I don’t think I…”
He tilts his head, a slow, wolfish grin creeping across his face. “You feel such things on my account? That we’re close?”
His mouth is playful, but his eyes—his eyes are fierce. It’s a lethal combination. More than I can handle. And somehow, he’s even closer. We’re the only two people in the room, yet he’s nearly glued to my side.
“I tried to figure it out myself,” I blurt. “How to get home, I mean. I did some asking around.”
He jolts back, alarm flashing across his face. “You what?”
“Don’t worry.” I lift a hand. “I was careful.”
“Folk don’t look kindly upon witchcraft.”
“I didn’t ask about witchcraft,” I say defensively. “I asked about Celtic legends.”
His shoulders remain stiff, but his gaze sharpens. “And?”
I sigh. “And now I could tell you all you’ve ever wanted to know about how fairies travel.”
His eyes stay on mine, reading the disappointment there. A soft smile tugs at his lips. “They cannae cross running water,” he says somberly.
I let my eyes return the smile. “All my problems would be solved, though, if only I could find Saint Columba and offer him a night of hospitality.”
Callum chuckles. “Aye, he can be a sly one. Until he turns up, you must remember to avoid speckled devils, ladies of leisure, and moors at midnight.”
“Oh, I knew all that before I got here,” I deadpan.
A laugh bursts from him. A real one. Not polite, not forced. Just warm and alive and easy. “Did you indeed?”
I let myself look at him. Really look at him.
I’velonged for someone to laugh with. And once again, here’s Callum, giving me what I need.
My gaze drifts over his shirt—stained but clean, loosely laced at the neck. As usual, a thick belt cinches his kilt, the tail-end of faded plaid flung over his shoulder. A knife hangs at his side, its scabbard darkened with an old stain, probably blood.
It’s all so strange to me.
He’sso strange to me.
