Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Lyla fought the incredibly powerful urge to toss all logic out the window and lose herself in the most perfect kiss she had ever experienced.
Breathtakingly hot and groaningly tender.
The completeness of this strange man’s mouth on hers.
The impossibly familiar feel of his hard, muscular chest beneath her hands.
All of it made her blood roar so loudly in her ears that she just knew she was about to pass out again.
Fighting to make it all make sense, she pushed him away and broke the sacred connection, immediately missing his heat as soon as he honored her wishes and stepped back.
Heart pounding, she gasped for air. His kiss had drowned her, then hoisted her to dizzying heights, and breathed new life into her.
She shoved back deeper into the chair, curling into a knot of confusion.
“Who are you?” she choked out, her already weak voice threatening to fail her completely. “Who are you—really?”
His liquid silver eyes took on the same golden, otherworldly glow of earlier.
She swallowed hard, unable to decide if he was an angel or a demon.
Or maybe an eerie mix of both. But his eyes revealed something she recognized: loneliness and yearning.
She’d seen those feelings in her own reflection too many times before.
She’d know them anywhere. “Who are you?” she whispered again.
“I told ye who I was, lass.” His smile was sad. Resigned. “Magnus MacRaith.” He nodded at her. “Yer fated mate.”
Fate mates. Seriously? “That’s the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels.” Bitterness filled her tone, and she hated how she sounded.
“Is it now?” He widened his stance and folded his powerful arms across that broad chest of his that had felt oh so good beneath her hands.
“Have ye ever experienced a kiss such as the one we just enjoyed?” He arched a silvery-white brow that matched his thick mane of hair, which he wore pulled back from his handsomeness and secured with a black leather strap, like some sort of sexy medieval warrior.
Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice.
“And do us both the courtesy of being honest when ye answer me, aye? What did ye feel when we kissed?”
She preferred not to step into that particular trap at the moment.
She needed time to think about it. “What about all those other things you said? A Highland Veil that keeps different realities separated and all that strangeness? Do you really expect me to believe all that? Where is this place, this Thirteenth Realm? Really?”
“So ye dinna believe in magic, then?”
Answering her with another question wasn’t fair.
It didn’t matter that she’d done the same to him.
That was different. She had a right to pick and choose what she answered.
She was the one at a disadvantage here—especially since he’d as much as said that he intended to hold her prisoner for two weeks.
“Magic is an illusion. A perception. A con.”
Was he going to pull a rabbit out of a hat now?
She tried not to think about how quickly he’d suddenly become partially dressed when she’d requested it, and the way the fire had burned brighter when he’d aimed a word she didn’t understand at it.
She had to have imagined all that oddness because she’d just come out of that weird faint that had overpowered her.
“Real is real,” she said. “Humanity’s wishful dreaming about controlling the world around them is what created the fairy tales about magic. ”
With the smooth, predatory grace of a mighty jungle cat, he retrieved his goblet from the table beside her and sauntered over to the cabinet covered in exquisite cut-glass decanters.
As he poured himself another drink, he slowly shook his head.
“Yer reality must be a sad place indeed. Do all there feel as ye do about using the power of the energies?”
“Using the power of the energies?” She thought she knew what he meant, but now more than ever, she needed to be certain. Her returning to where she belonged depended on it. “Is that your definition of magic?”
“Aye.”
“Most of us believe in science. Reality. That which we can see or feel. Many of us would love to believe in magic, but we know better.” She wasn’t lumping the earth religions into that classification.
Honoring and respecting nature were different things entirely.
Her stomach chose that inopportune moment to interrupt the conversation with an embarrassingly loud growl.
The nearly seven foot tall, maybe even taller, enigma who stood before her, this man who claimed to be her so-called fated mate, smiled as if he’d just overheard the juiciest secret.
Once again, he took a knee in front of her.
Did he know that every time he made that chivalrous move, her heart fluttered a little bit harder?
He held out his hand, placing it within inches of her mouth. “The best from my kitchens, my lady.”
A toasty brown bun, its crust split open and a dollop of butter melting inside its steamy white fluffiness, appeared in his palm, filling the air with the warm, yeasty, mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread.
She swallowed hard, about to drown in her own drool, but refused to take it. It had to be some sort of trick.
“Dinna be stubborn, lass.” He clicked his tongue like an affectionate parent as he inched the offering closer. “There is nothing to fear. ’Tis one of Cook’s best well-fired rolls. She bakes them fresh daily.”
Lyla's stomach rumbled again. Even louder than before. “What’s the catch?”
He snorted like a disgruntled bull, but didn’t back away. “I dinna wish ye to suffer with hunger. Where is the trap in that?”
“I’m not ungrateful.” She scooped the tempting knot of bread out of his hand, trying to take it without brushing against his skin.
An unnerving electricity tingled through her each time they made physical contact, and she’d given up on trying to convince herself it was nothing more than static.
She tore into the bun’s soft butteriness and shoved a bite into her mouth.
“Thank you,” she said around the steaming hot mouthful of deliciousness.
A delighted groan escaped her before she could stop it, so she just went with it.
“This is so good. Bread fresh from the oven is my weakness.”
His scowl softened. A knowing smugness made him even more irresistible—if that was possible.
She blinked the disturbing feeling away and concentrated on the roll, licking the butter drippings from her fingers and wiping her chin on a corner of the blanket. “Thank you,” she repeated after swallowing the last bite. “I hadn’t eaten today.”
He gave her a regal nod, making it quite easy to see him as the ruler he claimed he was.
“I will always take care of ye, my lady. Always.” Then he rose from kneeling.
Before stepping away from her, he tenderly trailed his fingertips along the curve of her cheek.
“We could know so much happiness here.” Then he flinched and gave her such a pained look, she couldn’t help but wonder what had hurt him.
“Many lives depend on that happiness as well.”
“Many lives depend on what happiness?” He’d already overloaded her with unbelievable information. What else did he have to tell her? This had to be a dream. Or maybe she’d been hurt when that cave collapsed, and this was some sort of coma-induced hallucination. “Whose lives? Whose happiness?”
“Our happiness and the lives of those of the Thirteenth Realm.” He turned away with surprising abruptness and picked up her glass. “Ye need more ale. Or would ye now prefer something stronger?”
“I don’t think I need anything stronger, thank you.
In fact, water would probably be better than ale.
” While she found herself trusting him, she wasn’t all that certain she trusted herself.
He was so powerfully tempting, and so sure to be a bad decision she would later regret.
“By the way, do you have any idea when I might get my robe back?” A physical wall of clothing would be really helpful right now, much more helpful than a blanket, even if it was something as intimate as a spa robe.
“Albionna has a wardrobe waiting for ye in my dressing room where she waits to help ye with yer evening bath.” He handed her the same goblet as before, but this time it held the sweetest spring water she’d ever tasted.
Who was this Albionna and how had the woman readied her a wardrobe?
Lyla took another sip of water and wondered if she was fighting this battle the wrong way.
Maybe a stronger drink would help her sort out the craziness of this rabbit hole.
After all, nothing else made sense. Why would sobriety?
She finished the water and held out the glass.
“A whisky chaser would be nice, please.”
He barely tilted his head to one side. “A chaser?”
“A whisky to chase the water I just drank.”
His face lit up with understanding. “Aye, lass. A whisky it is.” He took her glass and returned to the liquor cabinet.
Even though he’d probably stood with his back to her before, this was the first time she noticed the unusual tattoo that covered his right shoulder and swept around his right side.
Lightning-filled clouds with an almost three-dimensional effect of light and dark played along the lines of his massive warrior’s frame.
The intricate storm swept across half his body, and at its center was the silhouette of a mighty dragon with its wings spread in flight.
“Nice ink,” she said without thinking. From the look he gave her, she had confused him again.
Why did they have so much trouble communicating?
They both spoke English. “Your tattoo?” She patted her right shoulder and almost dropped the blanket.
“The picture on your back. Do they not call them ink or tattoos here?”