Page 49 of The Scottish Bride
“I do not own a book of prophecies by Thomas. So there.” She yawned.
“But you do have a book of his.” Seeing her yawn again, he shook his head. “Later for that. You should rest.”
She looked weary. It troubled him to see it. But he had been glad to see her spirit and spark return when she spoke of Malise and doubted the harper.
He took the cup from her—she had emptied the thing, he saw—and stood over her. He knew he hovered, but he needed to just then, to be sure she was fine.
“I do not need a nursemaid, sir. Still, thank you.”
“Someone should watch over you for a bit. You have no woman with you, and the monks would be uncomfortable with it. So you have me.”
She shoved her hair over her shoulders in a flow of gold. It was long and heavy, trailing to her hips, and he wanted to sink his fingers into that gossamer stuff.
“Sit down. Please,” she added. “You are so tall, standing there like that. It hurts my neck to converse with you. That is, if we must keep talking about who has the Rhymer’s book. Which I do not,” she added.
“You do have a truthy way about you, lady.”
“And I see that you are tired, too. Sit.” She patted the blanket.
He sat beside her, causing the bed to sink so that she tipped against him. “The Sight tells you I am tired?” He laughed.
“No one needs a seer for that. You have dark circles under your eyes and you look—stormy. Shadows here,” she said, touching his cheek. “Creases here.” She stroked his brow. “I know I just bring worry to you, and I am sorry. Truly.” She leaned in.
“I should have given you food instead of Holyoak’suisge beatha,” he mused.
“Did you know your eyes turn dull blue when you are tired? Like bluestone.”
“I did not know that.” How would he?
“I like them best when they are bright as patches of blue sky. Though I like them all the time. I have not seen eyes quite like yours. It is as if your very soul is right there.” She tapped his cheek below one eye. “Just there, watching me.”
He shook his head, bemused, bewildered. “You, lady, when you are tired, chatter like a magpie. And your eyes sparkle like crystal—though sometimes they look like thunder. Or is it the drink doing that?”
“Not the drink. You know I liked it,” she said, “when we—oh, I should not say.”
When they had kissed? The thought flashed through his mind. “I liked it too. Perhaps you should try to sleep.”
She sighed and leaned toward him. “I had a thought.”
“Now what? You are full of thoughts. I cannot keep pace.”
“In a few days, Samhain will be upon us. The eve of All Souls Day,” she said.
He lifted a brow in quick comprehension. “A time when strange things may occur. And something strange... just happened to you. The vision?”
She nodded. “A time when the veil between this world and the Otherworld goes so fine and thin that one may be visited by spirits. Or have visions.”
“Just so.” What might seem mad suddenly did not.
“Perhaps that happened to me today. Each day closer to Samhain, we are closer to the veil, and I saw something out of the ordinary. Enchantment in the air, you see.”
“I see,” he murmured. Sitting beside her, feeling her warmth, her arm and shoulder pressed against him, her golden hair spilling over his arm, he felt entranced. Spellbound.
“And then,” she said, “you kissed me.”
His heart pounded. “I did.”
“It felt like magic.”
