haste
. The voice came again, more urgent but fainter.
Do you not see how the lass shivers?
But to Jamie’s mind, he was the one shivering.
His Fairmaiden bride graced the night composed as always, even if she was staring at the Na Clachan Breugach stone with eyes as wide as if she’d not only heard Kendrick, but seen him as well.
Not that he was going to ask her.
He did coil a quick arm around her and sweep her up against his chest, flipping his plaid over her to shield her from the gusting wind.
But as he strode toward the chapel, a rash of shivers spilled through him. And just when he nudged open the narrow, rowan-bedecked door, he thought he caught a glimpse of something flitting through the trees.
A faintly luminous something, moving away from the cairns and aglow with soft iridescent light.
Until he blinked and nothing but mist-wraiths and empty wind curled through the wood and the only glow in sight proved the glimmer of the moon, peering down at him through the clouds.
The strange light was gone.
And for that reason, he left the chapel door open, preferring a clear view of the churchyard and the surrounding wood of birches and oaks. But he did not fear his brothers’ bogles. Truth be told, he’d be keen to see them. But he trusted his instincts.
With all respect to his bride, Fairmaiden Castle was known to attract unsavory men. Broken, clanless caterans well adept at hiding in bracken and heather. Brigands he’d trust to skulk through the gusty night, swinging lanterns and rattling chains, whate’er their nefarious purpose.
A possibility he wasn’t about to share with Alan Mor’s daughter.
But cold chills such as the ones still slithering down his spine were the only reason he’d come away whole from the slaughter at Neville’s Cross. He doubted there was any danger of an English arrow storm descending upon his family’s tiny chapel and churchyard, but something equally unpleasant lurked in the nearby wood.
He was sure of it.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t his brothers.
They rested quietly beneath their mounded stones. The only sign of life within the dank, incense-steeped chapel squirmed and wriggled in his arms. Soft, warm, and far too tempting for his current mood. Impatient, too, for she shoved back the hood of her cloak and looked up at him the moment he set her on her feet on the rough, stone-flagged floor.
“You needn’t peer about with such caution,” she said, watching him scan the church’s dim interior. “They aren’t here. Not now.”
“Not now?” He arched a brow at her.
Aveline shook her head.
Jamie folded his arms. “‘Not now implies no longer,’” he said, uncomfortably aware of the many recumbent effigies of his long-dead ancestors.
Proud Macpherson knights, their tombs lined the chapel walls and crowded the deeper shadows. Colorful paint gleamed on their armor and shields, making their stone helms and swords look startlingly real and bringing their cold, chiseled features to such vivid life that he crossed himself.
“And ‘no longer’ implies they once were here,” he finished, trying not to feel his ancestors’ stony-eyed stares.
Trying especially to forget that farther back in the chapel, his mother slept as well. She slumbered deeply, hidden away behind the high altar, well beyond his sword-swinging, shield-carrying forebears, her beautiful marble tomb tucked deliberately out of sight.
As if secreting her sculpted likeness from view might undo its reason for being.
“They were here, aye.” His bride’s words echoed in the half-dark of the chapel, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
She looked down, flicked a raindrop from her cloak. “Leastways, two of them.”
“‘Two of them’?” Jamie could feel the back of his neck heating. “Which two?”
“Neill and Kendrick.”
Jamie put back his shoulders, looking at her. “See you, lass, since I’m fairly certain my father would rather roll naked in a patch of stinging nettles
. The voice came again, more urgent but fainter.
Do you not see how the lass shivers?
But to Jamie’s mind, he was the one shivering.
His Fairmaiden bride graced the night composed as always, even if she was staring at the Na Clachan Breugach stone with eyes as wide as if she’d not only heard Kendrick, but seen him as well.
Not that he was going to ask her.
He did coil a quick arm around her and sweep her up against his chest, flipping his plaid over her to shield her from the gusting wind.
But as he strode toward the chapel, a rash of shivers spilled through him. And just when he nudged open the narrow, rowan-bedecked door, he thought he caught a glimpse of something flitting through the trees.
A faintly luminous something, moving away from the cairns and aglow with soft iridescent light.
Until he blinked and nothing but mist-wraiths and empty wind curled through the wood and the only glow in sight proved the glimmer of the moon, peering down at him through the clouds.
The strange light was gone.
And for that reason, he left the chapel door open, preferring a clear view of the churchyard and the surrounding wood of birches and oaks. But he did not fear his brothers’ bogles. Truth be told, he’d be keen to see them. But he trusted his instincts.
With all respect to his bride, Fairmaiden Castle was known to attract unsavory men. Broken, clanless caterans well adept at hiding in bracken and heather. Brigands he’d trust to skulk through the gusty night, swinging lanterns and rattling chains, whate’er their nefarious purpose.
A possibility he wasn’t about to share with Alan Mor’s daughter.
But cold chills such as the ones still slithering down his spine were the only reason he’d come away whole from the slaughter at Neville’s Cross. He doubted there was any danger of an English arrow storm descending upon his family’s tiny chapel and churchyard, but something equally unpleasant lurked in the nearby wood.
He was sure of it.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t his brothers.
They rested quietly beneath their mounded stones. The only sign of life within the dank, incense-steeped chapel squirmed and wriggled in his arms. Soft, warm, and far too tempting for his current mood. Impatient, too, for she shoved back the hood of her cloak and looked up at him the moment he set her on her feet on the rough, stone-flagged floor.
“You needn’t peer about with such caution,” she said, watching him scan the church’s dim interior. “They aren’t here. Not now.”
“Not now?” He arched a brow at her.
Aveline shook her head.
Jamie folded his arms. “‘Not now implies no longer,’” he said, uncomfortably aware of the many recumbent effigies of his long-dead ancestors.
Proud Macpherson knights, their tombs lined the chapel walls and crowded the deeper shadows. Colorful paint gleamed on their armor and shields, making their stone helms and swords look startlingly real and bringing their cold, chiseled features to such vivid life that he crossed himself.
“And ‘no longer’ implies they once were here,” he finished, trying not to feel his ancestors’ stony-eyed stares.
Trying especially to forget that farther back in the chapel, his mother slept as well. She slumbered deeply, hidden away behind the high altar, well beyond his sword-swinging, shield-carrying forebears, her beautiful marble tomb tucked deliberately out of sight.
As if secreting her sculpted likeness from view might undo its reason for being.
“They were here, aye.” His bride’s words echoed in the half-dark of the chapel, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
She looked down, flicked a raindrop from her cloak. “Leastways, two of them.”
“‘Two of them’?” Jamie could feel the back of his neck heating. “Which two?”
“Neill and Kendrick.”
Jamie put back his shoulders, looking at her. “See you, lass, since I’m fairly certain my father would rather roll naked in a patch of stinging nettles
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