Page 101 of Luthias

Emery punched him and struggled and even tried to bite him, but that allowed him to part her lips, and then he was kissing her as if that was all that mattered. His mouth tasted cold and sweet, and then grew hotter. The world tilted, and then she lay on her back in the grass with the laird on top of her. She felt so outraged she wanted to grab his dagger and stab him in the heart with it, and she would, just as soon as he stopped with the kissing.

The real problem was that she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to kiss him for the rest of the day. The rest of the week. The rest of the century.

Luthias finally lifted his head to look into her eyes. “Mery.”

“Shut up. My mother drowned when I was six years old. How could you make me go through this when you couldn’t––when I didn’t have to––if you weren’t immortal, I swear to God I’d kill you right now.” As angry as she was, all the fight had gone out of her. Then the reaction finally hit, making tears well up in her eyes. They stung so much she gasped and covered her face with her hands, swallowing over and over to keep from sobbing. “I thought you were dead.”

He tugged down her hands and pressed his brow to hers. “I yet live, my sweet lass.”

“Don’t you dare be nice to me now,” Emery said. “Bad enough I’m stuck in your time, and falling for you. I know we can’t stay together, I mean, that’s never going to work, and now you’re this Fae prince’s son, and nine hundred years old, and you can’t die. Enough.” She closed her eyes and felt the tears slide down her temples into her soaked hair.

“’Tis more you should ken,” Luthias said gently.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “Do you not know the meaning of the word enough?”

“The men of my clan, they’re all half-Fae immortals,” he told her, and stroked a hand over her wet hair. “We share the same sire, but no’ the same màthair.”

“All of the guys in the clan are Prince Ross’s sons? All of them?” When he nodded Emery pushed him away and sat up. “You’re telling me that Darach and Taveon and even Camdyn––they’re your brothers? How can you have five hundred siblings?”

“Prince Ross lived in the mortal realm a very long time, and loved many mortal women, all of whom bore him at least one bairn. We numbered seven hundred and twenty-four when he died, but unlike the Fae we may be killed,” he admitted. “Our blood keeps us from ageing, and we cannae drown, yet ’tis unable to heal grievous wounds or burns. War with the first clans and the Roman invaders took many brothers from me.” He gingerly touched the gash on his brow. “You did save me, lass. Had I bled out in the loch–”

“Don’t tell me that.” Emery grabbed her head, which strangely didn’t explode, and then dropped her hands. “What else are you keeping from me? Is there a dragon living in the dungeons? Or elves hiding in the attics?” She scowled at him. “Darach and Taveon lied to me this morning about the fairies, too, didn’t they?”

Luthias sighed. “Darach cannae lie, ’tisnae such things as dragons, elves, and we’re Fae, no’ fairies.”

“Says the nine-hundred-year-old immortal with five hundred brothers.” She flopped back on the grass and stared up at the bright blue sky. “I love science. I believe in science. I’ve spent my whole adult life studying and researching and using science. Why do you and the MacRoss keep stomping all over my science?”

“We dinnae mean to.” He pulled off his boots before he stretched out beside her. “Fae magic, ’tis our science, I reckon.”

Emery had never thought of it like that, and turned her head to look at him. “I really hate you.”

“No,” he told her, his pretty eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “You really dinnae.”

“I hate you because I realized something else when I was dragging what I thought was your dead body out of the water that could have drowned me.” She took in a deep breath. “I’m falling in love with you.”

“Aye.” He sounded just as depressed as she felt. “Same.”

Hearing him use her modern expression made a semi-hysterical giggle rise in her throat. “Don’t say that. This is when you’re supposed to remind me that you’re the laird, and I only came here to save your clan. When I do my thing then you and I are going our separate ways. I’m waiting. Go ahead.” She gestured at him. “Be the laird.”

“I shall tell you tomorrow.” Luthias turned and rolled on top of her, bracing his weight on his arms as he looked down at her. “Today I shall love you.”

“You’ll get me pregnant,” Emery warned him, and then sighed as he shook his head. “So that’s why none of you have kids. You’re hybrids who can’t have offspring, like mules and ligers. Okay. Then the clan will demand we get married or handfasted or something.” Again he shook his head, which made a pang of sadness shoot through her heart. “I guess being immortal means no mortal wives, either.”

“We cannae grow old, nor sire bairns. ’Twouldnae be fair nor kind to any mortal woman who wished take a MacRoss as husband.” He kissed her brow. “Do you want to be a wife, my Mery?”

”No. Your Mery wants to be rewarded for risking her life to save yours.” She heaved out a breath and curled her arms around his neck. “So love me. Love me right now.”

Callum dragged the last of the deadfall from the hand cart and tossed it in front of the lowlanders sawing the wood into rounds for splitting. He wiped the sweat from his brow before he helped himself to a dipper of water, and then surveyed the work site. They had cleared several roods and would soon move from the area near the castle trail across the river. Half of the lowlanders sat having their mid-day meal in the shade while the rest worked.

Emery had not come today, nor would she, he suspected. He’d misjudged her sharp eyes and clever mind. It still hurt his pride a little that she had resisted him so easily, and had nearly discovered his ruse. Her terror of the water also made him feel a strange pang of guilt; she must have been badly frightened when he’d dragged her near the river. He would go more carefully with her––if he had another chance.

“Come and eat, lad,” the headman called out to him. “You’ve earned a break.”

“My legs want stretching,” he said, glancing up at the sun. Before joining the woodcutters he’d arranged to send messages to Dun Deigh by leaving a pattern of stones on the boundary, and the first appointed meeting time had drawn close. “I’ll take a stroll, I reckon.”

“Mind the patrols,” another woodcutter warned. “They’re searching for a crazed poacher or some such.”

“Aye.” Keeping out of sight of the MacRoss clansmen had proven simple for Callum; he merely ducked his head and touched his brow whenever they came near. No one would suspect the Carack laird to be dressed like a lowlander or cutting wood for the clan. “I’ll be back.”