Shadows of the Keeper (6 page)

“Sex mast—I am a
Shadow
Master!”

“Whatever.  Now, turn
around.  It’s my dream and I’d like to check out your ass.”

Hissing erupted.  Suddenly,
she was yanked into his arms, his mouth hungrily covering hers.  She
melted into him, moth to flame, her singed lips parting, allowing him complete
possession. 
So, this is kissing
. 
Sure beats the peck here
and there from Peter
. Instinctively, Emily arched, neck thrown back as Shadow
Master swirled his hot tongue on the hollow of her throat, then trailed up to
its throbbing pulse.  A mind of their own, her fingers savagely entwined
his hair, pulling him closer.  Déjà vu teased, but she ignored the
tingling of vague memories.

Dezenial’s fangs lengthened. 
Desire heightened.  He did what he professed never to allow with her in
this lifetime that she existed.  He bit deeply and tasted her soul. 
She gasped, and he could feel her world spinning off its axis.  Waves of
ecstasy throbbed through her and into him, exploding in a fiery sensation
forcing her to hang onto him for dear life.

His beautiful Emily did not realize
this was the threshold of Lumynari mating.

Regrettably, he pulled away,
suckling the punctures until they bled no more.  Her head fell back until
she was gazing up at him.  “Your eyes glow red!”

“You belong to me, Keer’dra.”

She nodded, still floating. 
“No problem.”  Something primal seized her.  She grappled his
neck.  “Don’t leave me.  Please.”

“You must slumber.”  He chuckled
against her hair, his hold tightening.  She sagged against him, weakened
from her first real taste of pleasure.  She was his for the taking; for
the claiming.  “You tempt me, vixen, but I have vowed never to bring you
into my world again.”  He nuzzled her neck, licking the slight wound from
his bite.  Hungrily, she found his mouth.  He knew she reveled in the
spicy scent of him, coppery taste of her blood still in his mouth heightening
her arousal.  Almost, he gave in.

“Sleep.”  He untangled her arms
from his neck.  “I will stand guard over you, hidden in shadows, as
always.”  Waving his hand, she slumped into his arms, instantly asleep.

She was marinating in men. 
Sip
coffee.  Stay calm.  Pretend I do this all the time
.
 
Yeah, right.
  This was her fifth morning at a trestle table, in
medievalish great hall, and breaking her fast with thirty some odd men. 
Emphases
on
odd.  Long hair, tailored beards, that part of the visage looked
within character to the setting she found herself in.  But, they wore
denim.  And didn’t look too comfortable doing so. 
Shouldn’t they
be wearing tartans, plaids—whatever—Highland gear
? 
And what’s with
all their squirming?
  A few grumbled heatedly in their guttural
language, tugging their belt loops, offering her blushing apologies before
slipping back into their cursing as they battled their various pieces of
clothing.

Weird
.

And, what is in the water ‘round
here because, they are
gor-GEOUS! 
I could start a dating
magazine. 

Hot Highlanders. 

Kissable Kilts. 

Sizzling Sporrans
—coffee
nearly spewed from her mouth over
that
ridiculous title. 
No, no
magazine
.  They could find their own dates.  For herself, she had
a HOT dream lover not even her favorite author could pen.  Emily’s cheeks
flamed.  Her neck throbbed. 
So do other places, for that matter
. 
She could feel heat staining her cheeks.  Mr. Sandman had been uber
generous last night. 
And I reciprocated by being rather brazen with my
phantom lover.
  Darting her gaze over her table partners, they seemed
oblivious to her odious memories.  Emily floated through her memories,
desperate to hold the phantom’s fading image. 
If only he were real,
fangs and all.  And naked. 
Definitely
naked
. 
Needing a distraction, her gaze wandered over the rim of her cup. 

Obsidian eyes impaled her.

What the hell
?
  Has
there ever been a more exasperating man?  He’s forever pissed—Sir
Pissed.  If not for his permanent scowl and his sewage-stench-attitude,
he’d be gorgeous too.
  Emily inwardly cringed remembering her brief
encounter with him yesterday.  He’d been bent at the waist, shoeing a
horse.  She’d come up from behind, enjoying the full view of his—

“Did ye’ sleep well, lass?”

Emily jumped, her knee smacking the
underside of the table.  “Yes, thank you, uh . . . “

“Colin.  I’m the resident
doctor.”  Several coughed into their fists and muttered words beyond
Emily’s hearing.  “Yer’ eyes look a bit glassy, milady.”  Colin
grinned, stealing looks over his shoulder every few seconds towards Broc. 
The laird continued to glare at Emily as if they were the only two in this
massive hall.  Worse, she noticed
all
the men stealing looks
between herself and their laird. 

“Yes, Colin, I slept well. Until
that rude cat decided to wake me up in the most uncanny way.”  She reached
for the decanter and refilled her coffee . . . and noticed their lunatic
grinning had terminated.  “Are we only allowed one cup?  I’m so
sorry.  I didn’t know—“

“No, no, mi’ lady, by all means,
enjoy your coffee.  ‘Tis a savory—“

“Is he choking?”  Emily started
to rise, Aedan’s face as crimson as his hair.

“He’ll live,” Broc stated. 
“For the moment.”  His tone sliced across the room.  Almost, she
checked to see if she bled.  “What-of-the-cat?”

“Uh, well,”  Emily didn’t
appreciate how he enunciated each word with his teeth clenched. 
This
is really becoming too much.  Anything having to do with me, sets him into
a teeth-gnashing rage.  How many times have I asked to leave here
? 
Which brought to mind the catastrophe of her attempted escape upon horseback—the
beast had nipped her shoulder and chased her up to the very front door! 
Even
the fucking animals are my wardens
! 
If Peter hadn’t taken our
wedding plans, my dress, our honeymoon reservations and used it all to marry
another—that bitch even wore my dress, though I did hear she had to let out
several inches around the chest and waist . . . it’s the little things . . .
and his father in on the entire scheme, sending me here on this trumped up real
estate purchase—men need to come with warning labels. No, Broc-Butthead, it’s
really not my fault that I’m here.  Well, yes, it is because I’m gullible,
but I really don’t want to impose on you any longer. Gah.  Last night’s
plea fell on deaf ears.  Which is why I’m not saying shit to him again. 
I’m leaving, one way or another.

“Lass, yer’ starin’,” Garreck
whispered.  “An ye’ might want ta’ answer the laird.  Mornings aren’t
his best time o’ day.”

“As opposed to the rest of the time
we’re graced with Sir Yells A Lot?”

“Och, lass, ye’v a penchant fer’
death.”

Emily smiled at Garreck and waggled
her brows.  “It’s a gift.”

Broc’s voice was cold and
exact.  “I will have you tell me about the
cat.
”

“No.” Emily stuck out her
tongue.  “Brute.”

Grim Reaper shot out of his
chair.  “
Now
, Lady Emily!”

“Fine!  Since you have a need
to obsess, I’ll tell you.  Your cat’s a damn pervert!”

All eyes swung to Aedan.

“His favorite pastime is to sit on
the ledge of the tub while I bathe, and I swear-to-God, he watches every
movement I make!  And when I step out of the bath to dry off?  That
little freak actually tilts his head, the female body of great interest to
him.” Emily’s eyes narrowed.  “I warned, if he didn’t stop staring so
hard, curiosity would kill the cat, and what does he do?”  Emily threw up
her hands.  “Rubs against my wet legs, his fur sticking to—“

Aedan leapt from his bench, bolted
across the great hall, and literally dove out the open door.  Unholy
roaring—Broc loudest of all—men surged, ran, and jostled as they simultaneously
attempted to squeeze through the door opening.

“I’m the laird!  Get yer’
arses outa mi’ way!”

“Oh my God!  They’re not going
to hunt down the poor thing, are they?”

“Oh, aye, mi’ lady.  Time the
swine was shown a thing or two ‘bout respect,” Reignsfeugh stated, strutting to
her end of the table and settling in.  He too had rushed towards the
double front doors, then had a change of heart.  He reached for the
coffeepot, poured himself the dark brew and scrutinized various platters. 
“Shame ta’ let all this food and good coffee go to waste.”

Maeve gave a rather loud
‘harrumph’.

“They’re going to teach respect,”
Emily smirked.  “To a
cat
?”

Coughing and throat clearing, more
men excused themselves, they too rushing outdoors.  Emily twisted on the
bench and observed through the massive leaded windows as everyone chased after
Aedan.  Looking over his shoulder caused him to stumble.  Emily
gasped.  She came very close to shouting like a crazed fan screaming for
the touchdown.  Leaping up, Aedan tore away from the cursing, fist-waving
lunatics.

“I sure hate to see what you do
about a peeping tom,” she muttered. 

“Castration,” Reignsfeugh remarked
casually, stuffing an entire boiled egg into his mouth.

“Now you look like the chicken
about to give birth.”

Egg rocketed from Reignsfeugh’s
mouth, past Emily, and bounced a few times on the floor before wobbling to a
stop.  His eyes widened in horror.  Emily laughed, wheezed, smacked
the table several times, as if that really ever helped one to cease laughing,
and roared louder when Reignsfeugh attempted to fish the egg from the
floor.  At long last, calming herself, mopping her eyes with her cuff, she
avoided looking at Reignsfeugh or she’d be a lost cause, laughter unavoidable
at his expense.  There were men still seated at Broc’s table.  She studied
them for several seconds, they doing likewise.  She couldn’t help but take
note that their hair was similar to her own, very, very white and very long,
though hers went to the backs of her knees, there’s wasn’t far off.  Her
aunt had hated her hair. 
Evil hair
, she’d sermonized.  But
then, according to Aunt Millie, everything and anything having to do with Emily
was sinful.  For a few seconds, here in this massive great hall, even
though she found herself amongst strangers, she felt more a part of the group
than she’d ever felt in her life.

I must be getting my
period.  Uber emotional and sappy
. 
Ugh.  Next, I’ll cry
and require bucket loads of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy.

His
hair had been white as
well. 
Glowing
white.  Emily abruptly stood.  “Maeve,
I’ll help you clear this mess and then wash—“

“Not today, lass.  I ‘ave the
girls from the village ta’ assist me this morn.  Garreck has been waiting,
too patient for his own good,” she gave his shoulder a motherly pat as she
passed by.  “He thought ye’ might like a tour of the grounds, ta’ stretch yer’
legs, and breathe fresh air.”

Emily nodded, covertly studying
Reignsfeugh while wiping her hands one last time.  His head was covered
with swirling blue tattoos instead of hair.  And he stood nearly seven
feet—she’d asked.  His lineage was Redwood.  Period.  He’d
corrected her by informing he was Celt.  Yeah, okay, and she was of the
Fey.  Everyone had sported off expressions while looking at Maeve. 
Whatever.  Emily was five-three.  If she was lucky.  Reignsfeugh
was seven feet.  Redwood.  And right now, he was grinning sweetly at
Maeve.  Almost, Emily gasped. 
Why, he’s sweet on her!
 
Maeve bustled about, oblivious.  In fact, the elderly woman bustled
everywhere but where Reignsfeugh was sitting. 
Uh huh.  Show me
around, my ass. They want a few moments of privacy.
Smiling
conspiratorially, Emily wrapped her hand around Garreck’s bicep. 
Very
hard muscles, this one.  Yep!  I’ve died and gone to
Highlander-Heaven
.

“Are you married,” she asked. 
“By the way, Maeve, thank you for breakfast.  It tasted wonderful, and you
make the best coffee.”

“Ah, gi’ on wi’ ye’, lass.” 
Maeve grinned, wiping down another table.

Reignsfeugh choked down his
food.  “Aye, ye’ make the best Cornish—“

“Ye’, auld mohn, can just take yer’
compliments, that are three thousand years too late, and stuff ‘em up yer’
plaid!”  Maeve tossed down her cleaning cloth and flounced across the
great hall until a dark corridor swallowed her whole.  It did not,
however, swallow garbled words coming back towards them, nor the guffaws now
exploding from Reignsfeugh.

“Did she say three
thousand
years?”  Emily asked.

Reignsfeugh tapped his
temple.  “She’s a wee nutter.”

“Not married,” Garreck stepped aside
to allow her first passage out the main entrance.

“What?  Oh, right.  Ever
been?”

“No.”

“Really?  A Highlander, and
you’re single?”

“Just about all of us are, my
lady.”  His hold tightened on her arm, preventing her from slipping in
parts of the snow that had iced.  “Many of their wives were killed a long,
long time ago.”

“
Killed
?”

“Aye.  Doona fash
yerself.  It was a verra long time ago.” 

“But killed?  You said
‘many’.  A bus accident?”

“Bus?  I doona recognize this
‘bus’.”

“Mode of transportation.  I
don’t know what you call it here in Scotland.”

“Alba.”

“A bus is called an alba?”

Garreck chuckled.  “No, here,
where we are located, this is Alba.”

Emily cocked her head.  “Alba
is ancient Scotland.”

“Aye.”

She stared up at him for several
long seconds before he slightly nudged her to resume their walk. 

“Who’s Allen?”

“A nuisance we—“

“Oh-my-God!”

Garreck chuckled.  “Aye, lass.
 One of the favorite pastimes of the young ladies working here in the
upper bailey is to observe.  Drink yer’ fill.”

“Can I have a straw?”

Garreck erupted into rich male
laughter, watching as Emily visually gorged on the scene before her.  She
grinned approvingly.  Broc had removed his shirt. 
Yum-yum
. 
Clad in thigh loving jeans, tall black boots, his sun-kissed chest caused her
mouth to go dry. 
Super yum
.  Sweat glistened on his flesh,
swathing his narrow waist . . .
he has a six pack
.  Emily nearly
convulsed. 
Oh my God, a treasure trail
—

Laughter boomed around her.

“A treasure trail, lass?”

“Shit!  I mean, oh, I’m so
sorry.”  Her face burned.  It didn’t help that Garreck’s head was
thrown back, laughing, thus, drawing attention from the demi-God waylaying
Kavan with his claymore. 

Broc glowered. 

She could not reciprocate. 
He’s
serious eye candy
. 
Nah, more like a wet dream.  Got towels?

“Would there be somethin’ ye’ need,
Lady Emily?”

What I need would be most
inappropriate here
.  Emily swallowed.  No good.  Mouth was
still dry.  Not her palms, however.  They were damp.  Maybe she
could dry them on his—

“I’ll ask ye’ again.  Is there
somethin’ ye’ need, or are we ta’ merely bask in yer’ gawking?”

“Your Highness, I apologize for
enjoying a walk with your vassal—“

“Captain,” Garreck and Broc chimed.

“It was never my intent to disturb
you, Your Worshipfulness.”

“Worshipfulness,” he
whispered.  A quick glare shot towards his men silenced their snickering.

“Obviously, you are too uppity for
my presence, so, before your frown scars your face, and your shitty attitude
can once again remind me how inadequate I am in the face of your aristocracy,
I’ll take my leave.”

His men choked.

“Apparently,” she continued, “my
being an Yank and all, I’ve missed the cue that at some point I’m to curtsey in
your presence, Oh Imperial One.  Perhaps next time I’ll send you a . . .
what do you call it,” she tapped her lips with her index finger, concentrating.