“Then I can have some.” The words slip out, a little too close to the truth for comfort. I press my lips tight.
But Samson doesn’t notice. He just laughs. “It’s certainly not worth going south,” he says. “London always smells like shit, mostly because there’s shit everywhere.”
“Well, that sounds a bit like Edinburgh,” I say, although I hate to admit it.
Samson shakes his head. “Nah, see, I don’t believe that. There’s nowhere worse than London.” He turns back to the moor. “It’s beautiful here.”
And it is. The stars spread out forever, and the full moon has a faint ring about it. An ethereal glow pours down over the field, and it’s not magic, but it is.
This is why I’ve dedicated my life to protecting my home. Not for my father, the ungrateful arsehole. Not for Mary, too wrapped up in her own desires to think about her own duties.
But for this. For the soft hoots echoing over the field as an owl starts hunting for a mousy meal. For the long stretch of sky that reminds me of an impossible infinity. For the cold bite of winter at my nose, the air scented in a warning of snow.
That man was a part of Scotland too.My hands clench into fists, hidden by the blanket. The man I killed. He was Scottish. A Leth, presumably.
And the cauldron he held, that was a Red Cap weapon. Probably made here. Just like the needle I used to kill him.
Not everything in Scotland is beautiful.
Acid boils in my stomach. How far will I go to protect my home?
When do my actions make me as bad as the fae I’ve sworn to fight?
“I’m going to sleep,” I announce, wrapping up in the saddle blanket and lying down.
“Sweet dreams,” he mutters in a soft voice that I ignore.
I roll over, my back to the Englishman, but I can’t force my anxiety down, just as I can’t force my eyes closed. I weave protective magic around myself. And I have a dagger strapped to my thigh.
I’m no fool.
But I also can’t sleep. I stay stiffly on my side until I hear the soft breathing that indicates Samson’s drifted off. I roll over.
Red, red hair spills like fire over the blanket he’s lying on. He’s asleep. He’s got no motivation for me to read, no colorful intent I can interpret. I can see nothing with my power now.
But I can see a lot with my eyes.
And they drink in this man. He can’t be more than a year or two older than me, but even lying down, it’s clear he’s a full head taller, maybe more. Soft jaw, even in sleep, belied by a square chin. My eyes drift to his lips: full, slightly parted.
A soft sigh escapes me.
Well, feck that. I am absolutely not going to go jelly legs at the sight of a single pretty face. This man may not have a glamour on him to make his eyelashes curl just so, but I’ve known my whole life not to trust people based on appearances alone.
My fingers twitch, longing to brush a lock of his vivid hair away from his face—
No.No. What in all the hells has gotten into me?
It’s going to be a long night.
***
I toss and turn, my mind awake despite my body’s exhaustion.
“I can help.”
I startle fully awake, surprised to see Samson sitting up, watching me.
A flare of rage ignites my core. How dare an Englishman be this good-looking? His face is chiseled, not an ounce of boyish roundness to it, but it’s still soft, his gaze caring as he shifts a little closer to me. Beneath his tunic, I can see the hard lines of defined muscles. Unlike the men at court like Darnley and his ilk, Samson has clearly known real work, and despite my very best efforts, I can’t help but find that appealing.
