Stone Guardian Page 8
“Ye have no man?” Torin ceased prowling around the room and stared at her with a quizzical frown creasing his scarred forehead. His gaze swept from the top of her bedraggled head to the tips of her muddy tennis shoes. “Are ye widowed? Or have ye dedicated your life to serving the gods?”
“Neither.” Emma shifted closer to the stove; a sudden feeling of indignation seasoned with a heavy dose of self-consciousness tingled across her skin. “Why would you ask me something like that?” Emma smoothed the damp sticking curls away from her face. His piercing stare made her feel like a lab specimen cooking in a petri dish. She plucked her clinging wet shirt away from her cleavage, then latched both hands behind her back onto the handle of the oven door.
“A woman of your…” Torin paused, waving one hand to encompass the entirety of Emma’s body. “A woman of your age living alone? It can only mean one of two things. Either ye’ve dedicated your life to serving the gods or your husband’s preceded ye to the grave.” Torin nodded toward her lucky necklace. “And then there’s also the amulet at your throat.”
“A woman of my age?” Emma yanked her hands free of the appliance at her back, letting the door slam shut with a rattling bang. Dammit. She was so tired of people insinuating she’d out-lived her shelf life. She wasn’t a piece of bruised fruit or an over-ripe tomato past its prime. “Just how old do you think I am?”
Spreading his feet into a defensive stance, Torin lifted his chin, his good eye narrowed into a calculating stare. “Yer well past betrothal age.” He lowered his chin in a single, decisive nod. “Aye. A mature woman of your years should have children nearly grown and ready to find their own mates.”
“A mature woman of my years?” Emma rounded the counter. How dare he use that superior tone. She might be a mature woman but not the way he insinuated. “I’ll have you know in this day and time, a mature woman of my advanced years is not considered over the hill if she hasn’t married. And she’s also not pegged as widowed or a religious celibate.” Emma stomped across the room and yanked open the door leading to the rain swept porch. Gale force winds shuttered against the front of the croft, tossing sheets of water across the floor. “If you’re determined to be insulting, you can go back out into the storm. I don’t give a damn if you drown or not.”
Another gust of rain blasted into the room as the wind repeated its warning howl across the threshold. Torin’s lips tightened into a determined line. “Close the door, woman. I meant ye no ill will or disrespect. Ye look fine for an older woman.” Torin shifted his stance, worrying with his dagger as he avoided meeting Emma’s glare.
Emma slammed the door. I look fine for an older woman. She couldn’t believe this guy. Every time he opened his mouth, he insulted her. “I think from now on, you should just keep your opinions to yourself. The more you say, the closer you get to a soggy bed on the porch.” She should’ve left him to wallow in the mud in the middle of the stone circle. A woman of my age. An older woman. As soon as the rain let up, Torin was out. She didn’t care what happened to him. Pointing toward the rack of ceramic bowls beside the sink, Emma hissed through gritted teeth. “I think you better fix yourself a bowl of stew and shove it in your mouth before you say anything else that’s going to dig your grave even deeper.”
Chapter Thirteen
Damn this existence to which Cailleach na Mointeach woke me. She’d saddled him with a fiery woman whose image rivaled the goddess Brid and his long-dead fickle wife. But by the fires of old, the lass’s beauty couldn’t compare with the venom of her mouth. She had a tongue as sharp and cutting as a wailing banshee.
Damn this strange chaotic time. Noisy, stinking horseless wagons jarred your insides until ye felt ready to empty your gut. Torin glared out the window at the lashing storm beating sheets of water against the glass. And even after all this time and all the lies, he still missed her. Missed her with a gnawing burn, even though he knew in his heart that her love had never been true. Surely, if he’d had more time with her, he could have changed her wandering ways.
Torin closed his hands into tensed knots until his forearms ached. He shook his head and forced his fingers open. Why hadn’t the centuries of oblivion washed her from his mind? What would it take to dull the memory of how she’d died in his arms? Torin swallowed hard. If only she’d lived. If only he’d had one more chance. Pressing his palm against the smooth coldness of the glass, Torin whispered into the darkness. “Ye might as well cease your stirring of the energies. A bit of rain willna keep me from leaving this place and finding my way free of this accursed reality.”
The cottage shuddered as a blast of wind responded with a battering wail against the outer walls. Torin shook his head and turned away from the window, wandering back to the warmth of the hearth. Damn the stubbornness of the Cailleach. He pulled a brick of peat from the lop-sided basket resting beside the hearth. He hefted the weight of it in his palm, staring into the dark grain of the rough-cut block before yanking open the cast iron door and tossing it to the flames. Selecting another chunk of peat from the pile and bringing it to his nose, he closed his eyes and pulled in a deep whiff. Millennia of decayed vegetation tickled across his senses. The bogs of this strange new Isle of Lewis held eons of history compressed and cut into turf blocks of fuel. By all rights, his body should be a part of those bogs by now. His soul free of its scarred prison, elevated to the next level well beyond humanity’s veil. A bitter laugh rumbled from his chest. How brightly would his remains have burned? How lively would’ve been the flame?
Settling on the couch, his gaze fixed on the closed bedroom door to the room in which that worrisome woman had disappeared. He worried with the new growth of beard shadowing his face as he sank deeper into the plump cushions of the over-stuffed couch. Remorse nagged deep in his gut. He hadn’t meant she looked old. Hell’s fire. Did the lass not even know her own beauty? He just wanted to make sure he didn’t insult any possible husband or perhaps even her laird. Painful memories flooded into his mind: visions of Eilean tucking her chin and sharing heated glances with any attractive male visitor who happened to share their table.
Eilean. His clan had found her on one of the other islands. They’d gifted him with the beautiful woman as thanks for protecting their lands. Torin raked shaking hands through his hair, trying to shuttle the memories back to the closed-off corners of his mind. She’d been so full of life and so accepting even though his flesh was riddled with battle scars. Torin drew in a heavy breath and stared unblinking at the orange flames flickering through the slits of the grating.
It hadn’t taken long for the tattling of the tales to begin. The impossible-to-ignore whispers followed him through the castle’s halls. It had been such a struggle not to heed the warning signs of Eilean’s roving eye but eventually, her increasingly blatant behavior mocked him almost more than he could bear.
When she’d finally told him she carried his child, he’d been overjoyed, forced himself to believe the babe in her belly was his. Surely now, she’d settle into her place as devoted wife and mother. But no. Torin blew out the breath he’d been holding. She’d died. Eilean’s life ended because of her own vanity, just as the Cailleach had said. He rose from the couch to circle the tiny room, running away from the nagging voices chanting inside his head, the voices murmuring the painful truth. She’d died by her own hand, used herbs to void her body of the child and accidently ended both their lives.
Now here he stood, trapped in a terrifying future with a breathtaking woman who didn’t even realize her heritage or her place in the universe. The voice of the amulet at her throat spoke to him, claiming guardian blood flowed through her veins. Staring at the curved brass latch of her bedroom door, Torin clenched his teeth until his jaws ached. He needed to see her, explain to her that he hadn’t meant the words the way they’d come out. She needed to know her claim to power, her connection to the stones, the magic hidden in her touch.
Torin worried with the dagger strapped to his thigh then brought his fingertips slowly up
to trace them along the ridge of the scar running down his throat. The foolish woman also needed to acknowledge the reality of her beauty. Such a difference from the vain woman who’d crushed his heart. Perhaps Emma’s ignorance of her own charms enhanced the pleasure of looking on her face even more. He had to explain to her, make her understand that he hadn’t meant to cause her any pain.
Pushing down on the latch, Torin frowned as the locking mechanism bounced the handle back into his palm. She’d bolted the door? Did the woman actually fear him? Frustration swelled through him as he frowned down at the gleaming metal. Surely, she must know that he’d never cause her harm. Concentrating on the handle, Torin released enough energy into the metal to bend it to his will. The lock released with a click.
He eased the door open into the darkness of the room, honing in on one of the flameless torches glowing beside her bed. Such strange things filled this time. A gleaming brand trapped inside a tiny clear bauble created the same amount of light as a hundred burning candles.
The rhythm of her breathing revealed that she slept. Torin crept closer, peering down at Emma’s still form. Her flaming hair spread across the pillows like rivulets of flowing amber. Her pale skin glowed in the circle of light from the curious torch beside the bed. An opened binding of some sort of parchments rested across her chest. Her arms closed around the bulk of the strange book with the tightness of a lover’s embrace. Loose sheets of what he could only assume were parchments from the binding, some with strange scribblings across the white pages, lay scattered across the bed. Colored images, children’s faces looked up at him from more of the sheets layered across her legs.
Torin fingered through the stiff white pages strewn across her body after a glance at Emma’s face assured him that she still slept. What magic did she hope to accomplish with all this parchment tossed about the bed? These sheets held strange glyphs scratched out beneath the images of the children’s faces. What sort of spells did she hope to cast?
Emma stirred. A soft moan escaped from between her slightly parted lips as her head rolled back and forth on the pillow. Torin jerked his hand away from the papers. Perhaps she’d invoked a protection spell around the scattered writings. His breath caught as his gaze traveled down the smoothness of her throat to the lace-trimmed bodice stretched tight across her chest. Rose-colored nipples taunted him through the thin material. The twin temptations strained into inviting buttons at the tips of her round full breasts.
Torin shifted his stance as his body flared to attention. He darted his tongue across his lips against the sudden dryness of his mouth. His groin tightened, reminding him with a dull, insistent ache that it had been too long since they’d last enjoyed a woman’s caress. Staring at the coverlet crumpled around her waist, Torin sent up a silent wish that she’d toss the bedclothes aside. He remembered the tanned length of her legs and envisioned himself enjoying the sweetness waiting between them.
“No!”
Torin jumped back from the side of the bed, bracing himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing he knew he deserved for creeping into her room. When no words came, he peered closer at her face. Emma’s eyes were still closed. She shook her head back and forth against the pillow as though struggling against a foe only she could see.
“Shhh.” Torin edged closer to her side. Perhaps, he could soothe her away from the fears of the dream and stop her from thrashing into wakefulness.
“Don’t let go. I’ll be back for you.” Emma flailed her arms through the air, pumping them back and forth across her chest with an uneven rhythm.
Torin flexed both hands as he moved closer, toying with the haft of his dagger. The familiar touch of the worn leather straps wrapped about the handle brought clarity to his mind. The lass lay trapped in the terrors of her mind. Peering closer at the pinched expression coloring her face, Torin tensed. His heart lurched as tears squeezed out from the corners of her closed eyes and streamed tiny shining paths down her flushed cheeks.
“By the fires of hell,” Torin muttered as he pulled her thrashing body into his arms.
“Don’t let go,” Emma cried out again, pounding her fists through the air.
Folding her fluttering hands against his chest, Torin cradled her tighter into his embrace and tucked her head beneath his chin. Gently rocking her in his arms, he whispered into the sweet softness of her hair. “‘Twill be all right, lass. Open your eyes, sweet Emma. The demon ye fight is but a dream.”
“What?” Emma hiccupped into his chest. “Wh-what are you doing in here?” Struggling her way out of his embrace, she kicked against the covers as she scooted back against the headboard of the bed.
“Ye cried out.” Torin rose from the edge of the bed and shuffled a few steps away. He wasn’t about to tell her he’d been watching her while she slept. “There must’ve been a terrible evil in your dream. Ye cried out with fear.” He tried to keep his gaze averted from her heaving chest and focused on her wide green eyes. Holy blazes. Her round breasts begged acknowledgement. The tempting orbs cried out to be touched. Torin swallowed hard and focused on the headboard just above Emma’s head. Damn the aching part between my legs! His hardened cock ordered him to return his gaze to Emma’s luscious parts, the impossible-to-ignore, tempting parts straining through the lace. Would the woman never catch her breath?
“It was just a bad dream. I have them sometimes. But I’m all right now, so you can go back to the couch. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Emma scattered the pages across the bed, tucking the sheet up under her chin as she hugged her knees to her chest.
“I meant ye no harm.” Torin flexed his hands against the rough weave of his kilt. Damnú air. His ability to talk to a woman hadn’t improved any over the centuries and neither had his memory. Why the hell had he come in here in the first place? Emma’s warm body against his chest had immediately emptied his head. The sight of Emma’s unadorned hand jolted the blood back to his brain and jogged his faulty memory. “I also wanted ye to know. I dinna think yer old or look to be past yer best years.” Torin glanced down at his feet, shuffling them a bit wider apart as he clenched his hands behind his back. “I think ye look quite fine.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “I…um…see.” Two patches of red flamed across Emma’s cheeks as she pushed her tousled curls away from her face. “Thank you, Torin. I think we were both probably just very tired and frustrated earlier. But I do appreciate your apology.”
Ye have no idea just how frustrated. Torin’s nostrils flared as he forced in a deep breath while his glance wandered one last time across her body. Forcing his gaze back to her face, Torin backed toward the door. “I’ll leave ye to your sleep now. Rest well, little Emma.”
Emma stared at the door as it slowly closed and the latch clicked into place. No one had ever called her little Emma. Straightening her legs beneath the cloying sheets, she pushed the bedclothes away from her body. The room suddenly seemed overly warm. How long had Torin been in the room, watching over her while she slept? She rubbed her arms, remembering the strength of his embrace and the cloak of warmth and safety she’d felt while cradled against his chest. Plucking the exploded case files off the bed, Emma forced the memory from her mind. It didn’t matter how good he’d felt. Tomorrow, he’d be gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Emma stared at the coffeemaker. She drummed her fingers atop the cracked tiling of the countertop, willing the black liquid dripping at an irritatingly slow drizzle to flow into the pot a little faster. Massaging the corners of her burning eyes, she leaned against the counter. It had been a long night and sleep had been elusive. Thoughts of Torin lying in the next room had tensed her into a frustrated ball of pent-up emotions. By the time morning finally dawned, her emotional energy had reduced to a weary flicker.
Prying open her puffy eyes, she glanced into the sitting area of the croft. Where was he anyway? The worn leather couch sat empty and cold in front of the hearth. Unused blankets lay folded across the pile of pillows stacked against one sagging armrest.
As she sucked in a sip of the rich dark brew, Emma closed her eyes as the burning liquid swirled inside her mouth. Ahh…that hit the spot. It was times like these she understood the elusive bliss a drug addict sought when fighting for the burn of that long awaited fix. Another gallon or two of this stuff and she just might make it through the day.
Her eyes flew open as the creaking hinges of the heavy oak door groaned in protest at being disturbed. Torin stomped into the croft, shaking water from the plaid he’d draped above his head. “The gale wind still blows. The rain shows no sign of stopping.”
Emma cupped her hands tighter around the scalding hot mug, hoping the heated ceramic baking her palms would take her mind off the glistening expanse of Torin’s damp chest. Her thoughts whirled, addled by a sudden flash of heat below her waist that begged for immediate attention. “D-Do you want a cup of coffee while you dry out by the fire? You look soaked to the skin.” She swallowed hard and spun to face the still gurgling coffeepot. She’d never come across a man built like Torin. Her palms itched to touch that shimmering wet torso and smooth the moisture away.
Water spattered against the wood flooring as Torin shook it from his body. Stealing another glance over one shoulder, Emma caught her breath at the sight of the damp kilt clinging to the corded muscles of his thighs. Lord have mercy. Please don’t let him bend over any farther. No. Change that request. Please let him bend over just a little farther. Emma caught her lower lip between her teeth as Torin draped his plaid across the low-slung drying rack standing beside the fire.