Page 66 of Luthias

“This isn’t the Pelton,” she murmured, and gripped the sill with her free hand until her little knuckles went white. “Where the– How did I get here? Where am I?”

Although he wasn’t sure why, he reached over and covered one of her hands with his. The moment he touched her, he felt her softness and heat, and instantly wanted her wrapped around him. “You’ve come to Dun Lasair, stronghold of Clan MacRoss.”

“Dun Lasair. Is that in Scotland?” When he nodded Emery flinched. “What day and century is it now for you?”

“The end of June.” He glanced down at her, seeing her lips part and her eyes widen. “’Tis the fourteenth century.”

She blinked, and then she uttered a merry laugh.

“I’ve come back seven hundred years in time. Sure.” Emery’s mirth died away as she looked out again. “That’s impossible. I was just in New Hampshire. There’s no way.”

“You’re from a new shire?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t start weeping. He’d rather be beaten than watch a lass cry. “’Tis in Britannia?”

“This is wrong. I couldn’t have ended up… Wait, I get it.” She faced him, looking desperate. “I fell off the table, didn’t I? When Buc came after me.” She touched the side of her head. “I must be hallucinating because of the concussion. Or maybe I’m…” She glanced down between them. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

“You must be what?” Luthias asked softly.

“I saw myself on the floor with a broken neck right before this happened.” Tears streaked down her face as she closed her eyes tightly. “Please go away. I don’t want to be dead. I haven’t finished my diss. I have so much to do. Please let this just be a bad dream. Please.”

He felt a surge of pity. “You yet live, lass.”

It seemed to him that Emery Parker was no thief, and the legend of the Fire Sword was truth. Worried now she would swoon from the shock of what he’d revealed, Luthias carefully took the blade out of her hands. She didn’t even try to hold onto it.

The moment he gripped the amber flame hilt of the blade Luthias felt its magic curling over his hand and pouring into his flesh, and recalled another facet of the sword’s legend: He who finds the one brought by the blade shall become their protector, and shall be sained with a power to aid them.

Quickly he set the blade aside before it could do more to befuddle him, and then saw how unsteady the lass had become.

“Mistress Parker.” As she shook her head he curved his hands around her upper arms. He had to take care what he said to her now. “You’ve no’ died. ’Twould seem destiny brought you to me and my clan.”

She took in a shuddering breath. “Destiny?”

“You’ve come to us for a purpose, lass.” Luthias tightened his grip as she paled and swayed. “I cannae say what ’twill be, or when you must serve the clan. Only ken the MacRoss shall protect you.”

“That’s better than a beating, I suppose. Why is this happening to me?” She pressed her hands against his chest, and looked up at him. “I’m just a summer intern.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed against him.

Luthias held her against his body as he stooped to lift her in his arms. She felt so light he wondered if she’d been starved in her time. She smelled enchanting, like a meadow of tiny new blooms spangled with sun-warmed rain, and her delicate skin caressed his palms like thin silk. Beneath her own natural sweet fragrance something darker, hotter, and not of the mortal realm lingered. His own body’s reaction to it made him realize what it was.

This scent, the final proof of her innocence: she had been saturated with Fae fire magic.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the stone behind him, and Luthias turned to see the hooded figure of his garrison chieftain.

“My lord, what do you here alone?” As soon as he saw what Luthias held in his arms Darach stopped in his tracks and drew his blade. He shifted to put a wall behind his back as he peered around the room. “Show yourselves, you cowardly bastarts.”

“’Tis only the lass,” Luthias told him. “She came with the Fire Sword.”

“That jinx of a blade brought you a wench?” Darach sheathed his weapon, pulled back his hood from his tightly-bound bronze hair, and came over to inspect Emery. “Such a wee thing.” He sounded more annoyed than angry, but the dark red birthmark that engulfed his left eye always made him appear furious. “Och, and she’s dead, the poor maiden.”

“She’s but swooned.” He shifted Emery in his arms so that her head lay against his shoulder. “Take the blade to the forge for now, and send Sage Duine to my chamber. Bid him bring a soothing elixir. She’s suffered a fright.”

“Hold, my lord.” Darach stepped into his path. “This wench, she’s unknown to us, strangely-garbed, and crept into the stronghold without a single guard’s notice. You’ll no’ put her in your bed. What ’tis that smell?” He leaned over and sniffed, and then recoiled. “Gods blind me. She’s Fae?”

“’Tis the Fae magic that brought her that you smell,” Luthias said, and glanced over at the ancient sword. “As the sages ever swore, the old legend, ’tis truth.”

Darach had fought in countless battles over time, and no matter how badly he was wounded, never left a fight until the last of their enemies fell. He was the bravest of the MacRoss, and yet now he looked ready to puke.

“Touch her,” he told the chieftain.