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“Swear on my ma’s soul.” He offers me his hand.
I take it. This is madness, but at the core of what shouldn’t be, I feel a sense of responsibility. Sion wasn’t looking for a random teammate. For reasons I don’t yet understand, Finnbheara designated me to be part of this. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that buried deep in serious apprehension, my scholarly interest is piqued. “Alright, Sionnach, I’ll go to Leap Castle with you.”
I’m really doing this—traveling through time. My heart stutters. I can’t believe it. Somehow, I know Máthair would.
We dip inside the tree line and stop at a trio of stunning white trunks that begin from the same plot of earth, curve away from one another before bending back to an invisible center. Tiny green triangles climb the bark in an unnatural motif. Sion reaches between two of the trunks and produces an overstuffed canvas laundry bag. He dumps the contents at my feet and rifles through it. “A few skirts, an apron, and a leine ought to do you fine.”
“Lay-nya? Oh, you mean like an under tunic?”
“Aye, Professor.” He’s already pulling off his shirt. The dips and planes of his chest are as well-defined as any athlete with a neat patch of russet hair filling the space between his pecs. His limp hasn’t compromised a more-than-decent physique. I’ve only been involved with underfed bookworm types. What would it be like to explore those muscles with fingertips and kisses? He’s quite pleasant to look or semi-gawk at, which is what I’m doing.
“Hey, what did happen to your limp?”
Sion searches through the pile and pulls out a long muslin shirt. “Leine,” he says, tossing it in my direction before diving back into the collection.
“Limp?”
“It’s a wicked-twisted story.”
I bark a laugh, surprising myself. “What isn’t with you?”
“Promise I’ll whisper it in that sweet ear of yours during one of Olk’s long-winded speeches.” How strange to think Sion and I will once again sit on a tour bus with normal people. He wrestles a larger version of the leine from the tangle of fabric and drops it over his head. The garment falls to his knees, and he wrestles with the fly of his jeans. I’m about to suggest privacy when he drops his jeans and pulls on a pair of breeches, giving me a glimpse of boxer briefs and sleek muscled calves. A surge of heat having nothing to do with my Veil Sprites pools low in my belly. What is this man doing to me with his mesmerizing voice and fine body? I give my head a curt shake.
Jeremy Olk is my type.
“Interesting fact,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “They didn’t wear underthings where we’re going.”
“Lucky we’re not staying long then.” I carry my armful of period clothing behind a screen of bushes to dress. As I put on my Halloween costume of multilayered skirts, apron, vest, and cap, I call to him over the greenery. “Are you sure these clothes are period accurate enough for us to fit in?”
“Peasant fashion doesn’t change much. We’ll not be noticed.”
I have no choice but to assume he’s right. Clothing, apart from ceremonial garb, is not an area I’d paid much attention to as I leaned more into the spiritual and intellectual arms of Celtic studies instead of Pagan runway fashion.
I separate rumpled fabric. Interesting that Sion has women’s clothing mixed in his cosplay. Perhaps I’ll get another whispered story to explain the skirts in his collection during our next history lecture. The impression of a mystery girl in these clothes isn’t one I can let go. “So, I’m not the first fair lassie to travel with you?”
“You are.”
I snap one of the skirts, smoothing it so I can shimmy into it.
“I’ve known you’d be coming for a long while. I wanted to be ready.”
I tie the back of the skirt as unease tightens my chest. “How long?”
Evading the question, Sion exhales loud enough to send a small breath cloud into the chilly air.
I narrow my eyes. “Another wicked-twisted story?”
He chuckles. “That it is.”
Add I’ve known you’d be coming for a long while to my growing list of talking points with Sion.
When I emerge from my leafy dressing room, a fine Irish peasant waits. He’s donned boots and holds a pair of cloth slippers out to me. I use his shoulder for balance and slip them on.
He fiddles with the ties of my skirt, and then holds me at arm’s length for analysis. “Grand.” He winks. “Even without stockings.”
Damn it, why does Sion talking about stockings conjure an image of strong hands running up my legs to remove—? For goodness’ sake, Eala, get a grip. I pretend to be occupied with straightening my outfit. Do Veil forests hold an aphrodisiac component he’s failed to mention?
As I watch Sion expertly adjust his clothes, I stare at him. “How long have you been trying to fix the soulfall?”
