Page 37 of Dance in the Stones

Redford huffed, but there was no heat in it. He pressed a kiss to Damon’s shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re mine.”

Redford’s lips curved against his skin. “Just as you’re mine.”

Damon grinned. “That’s the best part.”

Chapter Fourteen

“Coffee?”

Redford cracked one eye open, squinting against the overcast afternoon light coming through the bedroom window. Afternoon? Damn. They’d slept through the entire morning, and yet Redford couldn’t bring himself to care.

Damon stood in the doorway, mug in each hand, wearing nothing but sleep pants slung low on his hips.

“You’re a vision,” Redford croaked.

“Flattery won’t make this coffee taste better, but nice try.” Damon crossed to the bed, handing over one mug before settling beside him. “Though I’d accept other forms of payment.”

Redford took a grateful sip, then another. “What time is it?”

“Past noon. Malcolm texted asking if we died.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That we were busy.” Damon’s grin turned wicked. “He said to take our time, and the crew can handle things for a few days.”

Redford snorted. The whole village probably felt they knew what the “new couple at the castle” were doing, although they’d only be half right. “Well, if we’ve got a bit of time, then we should look at those documents again and go over them properly this time.”

They’d been too caught up in the discovery the night before to really process what they’d found. Now, with clear heads and daylight, Redford wanted to understand exactly what he’d inherited.

Damon’s expression grew serious. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that.” He drained his mug. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll set everything up in the kitchen.”

Redford found Damon at the kitchen table, the journal, letters, and logbook spread across the worn wood. He’d materialized a pair of white cotton gloves for each of them and set out more coffee, always thinking ahead.

“Here.” Damon handed him the gloves. “The papers have held up really well for their age, but they’re still fragile.”

Redford pulled them on, settling into the chair across from his mate. The journal lay between them, its leather cover showing signs of age, but still intact. The writing inside was cramped, the ink faded to brown, but legible.

March 1565

Three more arrived last night. A wolf shifter and her cubs, fleeing Edinburgh after her neighbor accused her of witchcraft. The wards held strong - the magistrate’s men rode past the gates twice without seeing them. Beatrice’s magic continues to serve us well.

Redford’s chest tightened. He turned the page carefully.

The castle grows crowded. Twenty souls now shelter within these walls, waiting for safe passage south or across the sea. James says the network extends far wider than the Highlands now. Every paranormal clan and pack in this fair land knows Duncarrick will hide them.

“It’s fascinating that this wasn’t just a one-time thing,” Redford said quietly. “They ran an entire operation here.”

Damon nodded, his finger tracing down a page in the logbook. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. If you look at this - names, dates, and destinations - they kept records of everyone who passed through.” He flipped forward several pages. “This goes on for decades and includes hundreds of people.”

Redford picked up one of the letters, written in different handwriting.

To the Keepers of Duncarrick,

I write to inform you that the family you sent to us last spring has settled well in the village. The children attend the local school without incident, and their mother has taken work at the inn. No one suspects their true nature.

We stand ready to receive more who seek refuge. The times grow dark, but we shall prevail.