Plaid to the Bone by Mia Marlowe Page B

“’Tis time.”
    He pushed the sleeves of his robe up to bare his arms and advanced toward her, his athame in his hand.
    “Hold!” It was Adam’s voice coming from the stairwell.
    Hope surged in Cait’s heart, but fear for him overwhelmed it. Before she could warn Adam away, he pounded across the chamber at a dead run toward MacRath, a wicked claymore raised to strike.
    Almost as if he were bored, Morgan lifted a hand at the last moment and a shower of sparks flew from his palm. Adam lost his double-handed grip on the claymore’s hilt and it flew toward the mirror, narrowly missing Cait’s left arm as it attached itself to the magnetic frame.
    “I told ye, milord.” Callum Farquhar stumbled after Adam, his face as sorrowful as a whipped pup. “No weapon of metal will prosper against the sorcerer whilst magic flows round that mirror.”
    Morgan raised an appraising brow at the small man. “Very astute, Farquhar. Ye may have more understanding of these doings than I thought.” Then he glared at Adam, who’d been frozen in place since his sword was ripped from him. “And now for you, milord.”
    Morgan made mystic symbols in the air before him again, and Adam backed inexorably toward Cait and the mirror.
    “Flee, Adam. Save yourself,” Cait urged. Misery nearly choked her. “Dinna stay for me.”
    When he kept backing toward her, she realized that he had no control over where he was sent. His muscles bunched and tensed as he strained to reach the sorcerer, but he couldn’t break the spell’s hold. Finally Adam came to rest before her, forming a shield for her with his own body.
    “Oh, Adam. Why did ye come?”
    “My heart is here with ye. My body had to follow. And even if I could leave ye, lass,” he whispered, “I wouldna.”
    “Isn’t that precious?” Morgan said with a sneer. “Mark it well, Farquhar. ‘Flesh of my flesh’ is no’ just words to the laird and his lady. They’re warp and woof of the same plaid. Bound together—bone to bone. These two share one heart. When one stops, they’ll both drop.”
    Standing just outside the gouged circle around the mirror, Farquhar looked sorrowfully at Cait and hung his head. If she had suspected him of being the religious sort, she’d have guessed he was praying.
    Then Morgan began to chant in Latin again, but it was no liturgy Cait recognized. She peered around Adam as the sorcerer lifted his blade to the four corners of the room and then began to advance toward the magical circle. Murder blazed in his eyes.
    “We havena much time,” she whispered furiously, “but I want ye to know, Adam Cameron, that I do love ye. I didna mean to, but I couldna help it. I should have loved ye better, but with all that I am, I count myself blessed to have loved ye at all, even for this short time.”
    “Love is stronger than death, lass.” His voice rumbled through her and she realized he was trying to give her the last gift he could offer—courage. “We’ve naught to fear, you and me. Whatever happens in the next few moments, I’ll see ye after, aye?”
    Cait pressed her cheek against his strong back and swallowed back a sob. She’d try to be brave for him. She could face anything so long as this man was beside her.
    Then Morgan stopped chanting. She peered around her husband in time to see the sorcerer cock back the arm that bore the iron blade. Adam’s chest was bared. Morgan couldn’t miss from this distance.
    He threw the athame .
    Time contracted and expanded around them. Cait seemed to see every glint of candlelight on the dark blade as it sped toward her husband. She perceived the very air bending around the athame , curling around the knife in feathery wisps. Her vision narrowed until all she could see was the lethal tip hurtling toward them.
    Then out of nowhere, someone broke the circle and leaped in front of Adam. It was Farquhar.
    Suddenly Cait regained control of her limbs. Her dirk, Mr. Shaw’s larger blade, and Adam’s claymore all