Shadows of the Keeper (7 page)

Broc’s gaze narrowed.

“Ah, yes,” she snapped her
fingers.  “A missive.  Yes, that’s it.  I’ll send you a
missive
next time I’m sorely tempted to look upon your,” Emily waggled her fingers,
“manliness.  Please, don’t mind me.  Carry on with your roleplaying
at being a medieval warrior.  And, just so you know, a lot more went into
being a
man
back in the day than clobbering your men with pretty
swords.  Idiot.”

Broc’s lip pulled back, snarling.

“Tell me, if they happen to waylay
you, do you complete this medieval act by sending your men down to the
dungeons?  You don’t seem the type who takes to losing very well.” 
Emily’s eyes widened.  “Ooooh, perhaps that’s what you do to those of us
not waiting for a missive to your precious castle.”  She bowed deeply, fluttering
her hand out in front of her, while mimicking his accent.  “I’ll take my
leave of you, Sir Snob, so that you may continue playing.”  She rose with
much pomp, imitating a dandy by taking high steps as if the dirt beneath her
soles were repugnant, and retreated from his presence. 

“
Playing
,” Broc hissed.

Erchyll crossed himself.

Broc lunged.  He was grappled,
thwarting his attack.

“Last I checked, Sir Butthead, we
now shoot our enemies.  Swords are collectibles.  Toys.”  She
glanced back at him, arching a pale brow.  Her implication that he was an
idiot was not lost on him.  “Duh.”

“A real mohn doosna’ shoot his
enemy—“

“A
real
man has a job, not
some inheritance allowing him to
play
all day.”

“Mayhaps, she’d like ta’
play
swords wi’ ye’, Imperial One.”

Broc visually burned a hole in
Kavan. 

“I’m just sayin’, the other night,
she seemed a bit skilled wi’ her ability ta’ wield yer’ sword.”

“I willna’
play
at swords
with a woman.  Especially,
that
woman!”

Emily jerked.  When she turned
around, every man present took an unconscious step back.  “Afraid you’ll
be humiliated by your lack-wit-skill?” She asked, her voice husky.  “And,
just for the record, do you prance in front of some long mirror each night,
practicing that stink eye?”  She turned her head, glaring at him, first
with her left eye, then overdramatically with her right.  “Do you rehearse
your shitty comments as well?”  This time, she imitated his brogue while
splaying her hand over her chest.  “I am bettah than ye’, I am bettah than
thou.  Bow to me, oh miserable wretch tha’ ye be.”

Male laughter extinguished to
choking, but suffocation of mirth failed, Broc’s men clasping one another,
weakened by their humor.

“
Prance
?”  Obsidian
eyes actually darkened.  “Yer’ language be foul, a bite to yer’ tongue,
lass.  Could
this
be why ye’ lack a mohn ta’ take ye’ to the
alter?”

“You vicious swine-kissing
eavesdropping half-assed bastard!”

“Milady,” Garreck whispered amidst
gasps from their captive audience.  “When the laird’s eyes look like tha’,
best ta’—“

Before any could fathom her next
move, Emily lunged at a man playing sword caddy, and swiped one of his
battle-scuffed blades.  “I’ll show you taking arms against a woman.” 
She charged, her temper sizzling.  “I doona’ ‘ave a man in mi’ life
because I haven’t yet met one capable o’ fillin’ his plaid!”

“Och, she’s a sword,” Kavan warned.

“And a temper!”  Erchyll
admired loudly.  “God likes ‘em mean.”

“Aye, and a brogue ta’ match,”
Colin added.

“Bloody saints, I’ve arrived in
time!”  Allen stated.

Ancient warriors groaned. 
“The English arrive.”

“Mayhaps she’ll skewer
him
,”
Colin muttered.

“No good can come of it. 
He’ll reappear a few days hence, babblin’ about our lacking etiquette,” Kavan
warned.

Erchyll chaffed his hands. 
“We’ll repent.”

Emily raised her sword, its tip
once again aimed for Broc’s chin.  “Not going to raise your weapon, fool?”

“I’ll no’ take up arms against a
woman, nor a guest in my home.”

“I could argue that,” Allen called
out.

“Silence, Sassenach,” chorused the
crowd.

“Though, said guest
could
use a sound thrashing,” Broc finished.  He grinned, trying to lighten the
moment.

Emily no longer heard their
ruckus.  She only saw Broc’s scar.  From just under his left breast,
down to his right hip.  Her sword lowered.  Dozens of horses
materialized, stamping their protest against the cold.  Reigns, saddles,
swords and mail creaked and clanged in the winter breeze.  Tension
squeezed the air.  Condensation spiraled from waiting warriors and the
snouts of their steeds.  Someone yelled a command, commencing the mounts
to form a line.  Hundreds and hundreds of foot soldiers followed, dressed
in battle regalia she’d only seen in fantasy movies.  She witnessed her
own arm rise, draped in clothing she did not recognize.  Her arm came down. 
Her sword sliced.  A vertical clean ribbon of blood bloomed across Broc’s
torso.

Emily reared.  Broc lunged,
catching her before she fell.  Her sword thudded into the snow. 
“Broc?”

“Aye, lass.”  Her eyes were
terror-filled.  “What vision trespassed yer’ mind?”

“Your scar.”  She pulled away
from him.  Peripheral vision increased her nervousness.  Not one
horse was present.  Just a dozen faces, and they were staring hard. Their
hair billowed in the strengthening wind.  No longer were they laughing.

“Broc?”  her voice became as
tiny as she.

“I’m here, lass.”  Gently, he
touched her arm, though she didn’t witness his nod for Kavan to confiscate her
disowned weapon.  He had seen her eyes change, misplace their focus. 
Similar to when The Sight took hold of Maeve.

“There were horses . . . and . . .
hundreds of riders.”  Her gaze locked on his scar.  “I did that to
you.  I saw my own hand slice across you.”  She backed away. 
“Impossible.”

“A long time ago, Lady Emily.”

“You lie.  I’ve never attacked
anyone.  I signed a contract when I started fencing lessons, that I would
never use my training against anyone.”

“Contract’s breeched,” Kavan
muttered.

“Clauses,” Allen
explained.   “Free pass.”

“I’ve never seen you before coming
to Scotland.”  Pointedly, she looked at his scar.  “I want to go
home.  I don’t want any more stories about something hunting me.  I
was sent here on a fool’s run.  I’ve overstayed my welcome, which you’ve
made obvious time and time again.  I’m leaving.”  She spun about and
shrieked.  Lightning speed, Broc’s arms wrapped around her waist, swiveled
her to his side, his sword held out daring any to draw near.

“That man,” Emily pointed shakily,
“he just
shimmered
!”

“Oh, well, I popped in—oof—
arrived
a few moments ago.”  Allen rubbed his ribcage, eyeing Garreck
warily.  Emily failed to notice she pressed back, deeper against Broc’s
body.

Every man present grinned stupidly.

“Y-you’re really a g-ghost?”

Allen looked to Garreck.  “Am
I allowed to answer?”

“Aye, wastrel.”

“Now see here!”

“Sassenach!”  Broc bellowed.

Emily flinched, which succeeded in
snapping her from her stupor and honing in on the fact that the god had his arm
pressed just under her breasts.  His scent emblazoned her sanity. 
Man. Warm man.  Half naked warm man.  Her ovaries donned little black
shoes and started a Riverdance, her uterus their stage.  If she turned her
head ever-so-slight and stuck out her tongue, she could taste him.  She’d
just pretend to be licking her lips—

Do it and I’ll cut the appendage
from your mouth
!

Emily squeaked against the booming
male voice in her head.  Broc eyed her for a moment before resuming his
scowl on Allen.

“I’m a ghost, but not like in
stories or those movies your realm is fond of making.  I’m just a scholar
and, for some unfathomable reason, stuck here.  That would be my curse.”

“And ours,” Kavan, Erchyll and
Aedan chorused.

“S-so, you d-don’t haunt or drag
chains or slam furniture around?”  Which was worse?  The strong band
of forearm wrapped around her and attached to a very male body—Emily swallowed
convulsively—or the ghost she actually conversed with? 
He doesn’t
look
like a ghost. Looks as flesh and blood as Garreck.
Inhale. 
Oh,
goody, now I can smell his highlander scented body.  I could bottle that
and be rich.  Highlander scented sachets.  Highlander scented
potpourri.  Highlander scented candles.

“I daresay, Lady Emily, you look a
bit green,” Allen stated.

Exhale.  She’d forgotten to
breathe.  Broc stepped around, cupping her chin, tilting her face for his
scrutiny.  She blushed profusely, looking everywhere but up at him. 
She pulled back and dropped her gaze to the snow.  There were many
different textures to snow.  Little hills and valleys—strong, warm fingers
clasped under her chin again, raising her face.  She had no choice but to
drown in his gorgeous face.

“Please,” she whisper-squeaked.

“Oh, aye.”  He pressed against
her, male dominance, lowering his mouth, possessing hers with a feathery
touch.  It was just like her books!  And damn!  Her knees
actually weakened.  “This is not what I meant,” she whispered against his
mouth. 
Yes it is
, her mind screamed.

“Lass, yer’ trews are soaked to
yer’ thighs.”

“You have no idea.”

His laughter erupted.

Shit-hell-damn!  Must apply
more effort against thinking out loud
.  She pulled free from his
grasp. 
And what’s up with this blushing crap
?! 
I’ve never
blushed in my life
!

“You’re still healing from your
injuries.  I would see you settled in dry clothes, a hearth ta’ warm ye’,
before chill sets into yer’ bones.”

“Forever scowling, going out of
your way to make sure I never forget the inconvenience my presence places you
in, and now you not only kiss me, but want to tuck me in and read me a bedtime
story?  Why don’t you just simplify your life by letting me go home?”

“There is no need to further
discuss a decision I have made.  Mi’ word is law here, Lady Emily, and the
law rarely changes.”

She bolted past him, her back
prickling like Texas cactus.  Wind whisked around the high towers and
roared in the tomb silence.  Emily glanced up at the turrets.  There
had to be at least twenty gruff faces and one dark-haired woman staring down at
her.  God, they’d all witnessed that kiss! 
He might as well have
lifted his leg and peed on me, marking his territory
!

“Lady Emily?” Broc called to her.

Awash with humiliation and anger,
she only turned partway, eyeing him peripherally.

“I doona frown for the fact ye’
grace us with yer’ presence.  ‘Tis most welcome ye’ be.  My home
belongs to you.  I willna’ ‘ave ye’ plotting how ta’ leave.”

“Really?”  She dared look at
him.  “And what actions have you taken to convince me otherwise?  I’m
a prisoner here.  Only thing missing is a dungeon.”

“We ‘ave a dungeon.”

“Humor doesn’t sit well with
you.”  Furious, she sprinted towards the front entrance of the grand
castle.  He had looked at her like . . . like a man about to devour his
favorite dessert. 
I don’t want to be devoured.  I want to belong.

He dies a slow death if he dares
ever to touch you again, Keer’dra
!

Emily whirled.  She remained
alone.  Eyes watering, she looked above and around one last time. 
The voice resembled the same timbre as her dream lover. 
I’m seriously
losing it
.

*   *   *   *   *

Broc watched her, mindless of his
men shuffling around him, until she was nothing more than a memory of seconds
past. 

He’d kissed her.

What the bloody ‘ell was I
thinkin’?  She’s a stranger to me.  She’s no’ Aurelia.  No’ mi’
right ta’ be takin’ liberties wi’ her.  Aye, Aurelia returned, but the wee
lass doosna’ realize this.  No’ yet
.  Inwardly, he groaned. 
And I kissed her in front of mi’ men. I must apologize.  That damnable
book of hers has me thinking all kinds of insane thoughts.
  Broc
swiped his face. 
Aye, if I met the one having penned that damnable
rubbish, I’d give her an earful.  No’ right, making public events best
remaining in private chambers, providin’ women with details ta’ compare a mohn’s
prowess by.  Aye, but she did feel right, leaning against me. 
Perfect fit in mi’ arms.

Broc swelled with pride, having
wrapped an arm around her, sword drawn, protecting her from her fright. 
But that’s all he could ever be.  Her champion.  Never her
mate.  Forbidden.

“Perhaps you would care for a swim
in the lake?”  a velvety voice offered from behind.

“
Loch
, and no, water freezes
this time o’ year,” Broc snapped.

“Precisely.”

“How long ‘ave ye’ stood there,
Elf?”

“Long enough.”

Broc turned.  Aunsgar’s blue
eyes glittered, level with Broc’s.

“No’ one word.”

“You are too old for lectures on
decorum,” Aunsgar stated.

“The tyrant could use a few
lectures,” Aedan called out, his face suspiciously bruised.

“Ye’ cross lines ye’ doona ‘ave the
right ta’ be treadin’,” Broc warned.

“Touch her again, ye’ kill us all
by the wrath of Pendaran or the wrath of the Lumynari prince we protect her
for.  I’ll do more than cross lines, milord.”  Furiously, Aedan
stomped through Emily’s trail, following her towards the keep.

“I’ll remind myself ye’ be her
shield guard.  Otherwise, careful, pup.”

Aedan spun about, hissing
remarkably like a cat, sprinting away when Broc reached for strapped
blade.  Impaling the snow footprint Aedan had just lifted his foot from,
ancient hilt of the laird’s sgian dubh publicized his erratic emotions of late.