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Euphemia examined the text again, struggling with some of the verb tenses and archaic forms. “I think it’s best understood as… her most powerful spell, reluctantly cast for a desperate cause. She’s quite deeply in love.”
“His lute must be impressive.”
“The power of the mystical battle will propel him across any distance, though he’ll have to fight his way free to return to earth and be with her. And this he does. Over and over, he wills himself home, defeating impossible odds and gaining incomparable strength as a result. When his father dies, the prince is made chieftain. Yet, he refuses to take a wife, for he has fallen in love with the swan and cannot bear to be parted from her.”
“Mmm. Swans mate for life.”
Her eyes flew up to his.
His lips quirked. “Or, so I’m told.”
Quickly, she returned to the text, willing her heart to cease flopping about every time one of his dimples made an appearance. She drew a breath and continued, “From what I gather, he visits the loch one day to find the bird gone. In her place is a lovely young lass with white hair and his swan’s voice. She begs him to forgive her deception and reveals that she is Máire Campbell, once his intended bride. Unfortunately, the Sinclairs remain at war with the Campbells, but she persuades him to make peace. He does so long enough to contract the marriage. They are wed, and she bears him two daughters. Twins.” She stopped, caught on the final ten lines of the text.
“What is it?”
“He—he dies.”
“That was abrupt. Battle?”
“No. The last ten lines describe how he was betrayed by a rebellious faction of his own clan. They didn’t care for his peace with the Campbells, evidently.” She turned a page. And another. And another. “When I was translating, I didn’t notice… that can’t be all of it. What happens to Máire? The twins? Where is the ending?”
“Wondered that, myself.” Faintly, she heard him rise, felt him circle around behind her to read over her shoulder. “Sometimes these old books suffer from loose pages,” he murmured. “Let me search the chest.”
Moments later, he slid two halves of a torn page onto her open book. “Oh!” She glanced up, finding his jawline close enough to kiss. He smelled lovely—like lemon shaving soap. “Thank you.”
With a slow smile, he straightened. “Mustn’t leave the story unfinished.”
She blinked and set to work. As he moved around her, she struggled against distractions: his breathing, his scent. The soft tingle of his gaze touching her skin from time to time. Ordinarily, she wasn’t troubled by such things. But this night was far from ordinary. Outside, the snow had stopped, and the wind had quieted. In the hearth, fire popped. Sizzled.
When she finally glanced up, he was standing at the window with his back to her. “I think I have it,” she said softly.
He turned. “So, what happened? Were Máire and her daughters driven away?”
She shook her head. “The men who killed her husband were found dead by the next full moon. Máire remained on Sinclair lands for the rest of her life. Her daughters grew into womanhood and married. According to this tale, they are the source of ‘magic’ in the female line. Pure rubbish, of course, but it makes good fodder for our more eccentric kin.”
“Your cousins, for example.”
“Yes.” She peered closer at the final passage. “The tale concludes with this: Máire mourned her husband until her last days. Upon her death, legend has it, every time the merry dancers appear, so does a pair of swans upon a wee loch in Caithness.”
He came to stand behind her again. “A pair? Implying they are reunited.”
Her throat tightened. Light swirled. She swiped beneath her spectacles and sniffed. “He battles to return to her. And she waits for him. Again and again, forevermore.”
His hand appeared, offering a handkerchief. As she took the linen square, his knuckles caught her eye. They were battered worse than she’d thought. Deep gouges, swelling, and bruising had developed throughout the day. Heart squeezing, she clasped his wrist and brought his hand closer. “Andrew,” she chided softly. “Look at you. Does it hurt?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on either side of her shoulders. A faint stream of warm breath tickled her neck. “No,” he said hoarsely. “Compared to some pains, it’s nothing.”
She stroked him with her thumbs, admiring the strength of his hands. The elegant proportions. The reassuring warmth. “You shouldn’t have struck him.”
“Gibbs? No choice. He had taken hold of you.”
“It was rash.”
“It was necessary.”
“I don’t like you being injured.”
“I feel the same.”
