The sound of swords sliding in their scabbards greeted the lone figure. Stiff and on alert, Arran pressed Adaira’s arm until she was mostly behind him and drew his own sword.
From her limited vantage point behind Arran and her family, Adaira noted that the figure’s clothes appeared baggy and tattered. Not that of a soldier at all.
Then the figure stepped past the back-lit narthex to the pews at the rear of the church and entered the circle of candlelight. With the move that was at once shocking and familiar, the figure flicked his head upward so his hair flipped clear of his face.
It was as if time stopped.
And with it, Adaira’s heart.
She could not believe the vision before her eyes.
It was impossible.
She froze where she stood, certain she must be dreaming, or worse, in a bitter, taunting nightmare.
Sawny?
Reade, who is the closest to the figure, had his sword drawn as he approached.
“Who interrupts here?” Reade’s voice bellowed at the man.
Adaira realized no one else recognized him. But she did. From the hair flip. Sawny’s hair flip.
Who is this? A ghost? Had Sawny died and was now returning to her in the spiritual form?
Or . . .
Or . . . could it be possible?
Was this actually Sawny standing before her? A chill coursed over her body and her breathing hitched harder into a heavy, shocking pant.
The mangy man pulled back his shoulders and stared at Reade straight on.
He lifted his cleft chin and swept wet strands of hair off his tight, gaunt cheeks. The man’s eyes peered into the dim church, scanning the crowd before landing directly on Adaira.
Tawny, deep-set eyes with an intensity bore into her, driving deep into her chest. She moved so she was no longer behind Arran.
Only one man she knew looked at her with that intensity.
Finally, the figure spoke.
“I would prefer if ye moved away from my wife,” his raspy voice commanded.
The figure drew himself up to his full height, nearly as tall as her brother Maddock, and Adaira did not hesitate. Only one man had those eyes, that chin, that hair-flipping gesture, that voice.
Raspy, harsh, ragged, and Sawny.
That washisvoice. This had to be more than a dream.
Reade took a half step forward, yet his grip remained on the hilt of his sword.
“Sawny? ‘Tis truly ye, man?”
Adaira easily understood the disbelief in Reade’s question. The man who stood before them was a whisper of Sawny. Like her, the months apart had not been kind to him or his body. Either through torture or starvation or other adversities, his figure was ravaged more than hers.
Adaira did not wait for the man to answer. Ghost or not, spirit or not, she cared for none of it. This was her one moment to perhaps touch Sawny again. And if he disappeared in a wisp of smoke in her arms, at least she would have touched him one last time.
Lifting her skirts, she shoved her Arran to the side and raced down the aisle. She longed to throw herself against him, but if he was not real, she did not want to stumble to the ground. When she was less than a foot from him, she slowed, and then in a shaky gesture of disbelief, she lifted her hand and pressed it to his bearded cheek.
