The Gloaming Hour #5
Without words, he pulled her to a halt. Their eyes locked, his own grey ones to her blue.
Her hand flew to the scar on her face, but he gently grasped her fingers, placing them over his heart.
Pulling her close, he lowered his head and brushed her lips.
The feel of her against him, the softness of her frock and scent of her skin urged him even more.
His heart pounded like a wild thing, and when he grazed her tongue with his it took every ounce o’ strength he possessed tae remain upright.
He threaded his fingers through her silken honey hair, inhaled her very essence, and when her hands crept around his neck and held his mouth tae hers, he devoured her, tasting every inch of her.
Breathless, he hovered over her lips. “I never want tae let you go . . .”
Kylie’s heart seized at Rory’s words. With her eyes open, she swept his bottom lip with her tongue, kissing him slowly, lingering against his skin.
She held him tight, as though doing so would prevent him from fading away.
He crowded her with his body, wrapped his arms around her and encircled her, consumed her in ways she’d never thought possible.
His grey eyes stared down at her, their lips still touching.
Strong hands rested against the small of her back, then before either knew it, his presence began to slip, blurring into a faded mist until Kylie stood by the marsh alone.
She wrapped her arms around herself and fought the sting in her eyes.
Oh Christ, girl. Please dunna weep. I willna be able tae bear it.
Kylie exhaled. “I never expected to find you. Is this even happening? Is it real?”
His voice brushed the skin of her neck, and she closed her eyes. Aye, love. ’Tis real enough.
After a restless night, Kylie awakened, made coffee, and then plunged into the volumes. She asked Rory question after question with little result. Then, almost as if it leaped from the crinkled worn pages, she saw it. Her throat constricted.
What?
“The revolt aboard the Berkshire.”
Read it tae me?
Drawing a deep breath, Kylie began. “October, 1775. A revolt led by a captured officer of the Revolution ended in a bloodbath. Major Rory MacMillan, followed by a dozen starved and diseased prisoners aboard the prison ship Berkshire, overtook several guards in an attempt to man the ship and free its captives. The attempt proved futile. Major MacMillan, accused of being a deserter of the King’s army, was shot and thrown into the ship’s solitary prison pit, separating him from his men, thus ending the revolt. Somehow, his . . .”
His what, Kylie?
Rory’s strained words squeezed her heart. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His body simply disappeared from the locked prison. Major Rory MacMillan was never found, seen, or heard of ever again.”
The familiar haze began to shimmer before her, and Kylie’s eyes grew wide as Rory materialized before her. She jumped up. “What’s happening? It’s not even four o’clock.”
Without words, Rory grabbed her and held her close.
His mouth sought hers, then whispered against her lips.
“I remember, mo ghraidh. A man, another Scottish prisoner, whispered something in Gaelic. A verse. ’Twas just before I was shoved into the pit.
” He shook his head and studied her. “It somehow sent me forwards in time.” His eyes misted. “I didna desert, and I wasna killed.”
She stared into his grey eyes. God, she could drown in them. “I believe you.”
He kissed her, and it singed her soul. “Christ, mo ghraidh,” he whispered against her mouth. “The help which I sought so desperately all those years has finally come.” He smiled. “Now, I wish I’d never sought it.”
They held each other until he began to blur. Tears filled her eyes. “No, Rory. You can’t go.” She choked back a sob. “Please don’t.”
“I love you, Kylie Jane Robinson. I believe I always have. Do no’ forget that.”
The haze faded away, slipping into the late afternoon sun.
Tears fell down her cheeks. “Rory?” She looked around, waiting for his answer.
“Rory, please.” Nothing. Only a wind slipping through the marsh whispered a reply.
She tried to swallow, but her throat tightened, burned, refusing to allow it.
The air jammed in her lungs. She slid to the cool grass and cried. “God, please give him back . . .”
A few weeks and several cans of paint later, the verandah sparkled white once again. Green, bushy ferns hung down every few feet, and the whirring ceiling fan stirred just enough breezes to keep cool, to keep the fern fronds rustling in the wind.
God, she ached for him.
Closing her eyes, she gave the porch swing a push. She could still see him, smell him, could still hear his voice . . .
Are you awake yet?
Kylie sighed. He sounded so real.
“I said –” two strong hands cupped her face “– are you awake yet?”
She nearly flipped out of the swing. When her vision cleared, she stared into a pair of light grey eyes.
She reached out, expecting her hands to pass through, but they didn’t.
Instead, his hard chest heated beneath her palms. He pulled her close, and she inhaled his clean scent.
“Rory.” Her words choked from her throat. “How—”
“I don’ dare ask questions, mo ghraidh.” He kissed her hair.
Kylie’s eyes drifted shut. “What does that really mean?”
Rory’s mouth edged close to hers. “My love.”
“You are a miracle,” she said on an exhale.
He tilted her face up and claimed her lips. “Love always is, lass.” Marsh and magnolia swept across the verandah as they held each other into the gloaming hour . . . and beyond.