Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

D uring lunch, Derrick received a call from his office, regarding an urgent matter. He’d reluctantly left to attend to the issue.

It gave Gwen an opportunity to get to know Edith better and get the gist of the woman’s thinking. No matter how hard she tried to find something off about the older woman, she couldn’t find any fault with her hostess.

After a delightful lunch of soup, scones, and tea, Edith insisted on giving Gwen a tour of the town. They popped into a pottery shop next door, and Gwen picked up a few things before they drove back to the Dunimarle in Edith’s car.

Once in her room, Gwen went through her purchases and hung up a sweater she’d purchased. The day turned out to be quite delightful, so much so that she’d almost forgotten her reason for being in Scotland was to work and not a holiday.

After putting things away, she took a hot shower, planning to slip into warm pajamas for the evening. She’d make a pot of tea and settle in with a good book.

Her plan was to stay up most of the night to keep an eye out for Tristan’s ghost. Hopefully the Laird would appear, and she’d be able to get more information from him. The more she thought about it, he had to be some sort of poltergeist. Although a bit trickier, they could still be guided to move on.

Despite how real he’d seemed and the fact she could physically touch him, she had to remain strong against the strange pull she felt toward him. It was utterly ridiculous to be attracted to a ghost. For someone like her, a professional medium, it was also embarrassing.

In the bathroom, Gwen studied her reflection and wondered if Tristan McRainey would try to touch her again? She ran a comb through her wet hair, thinking of his kiss. It had been so real. What was stranger was the fact that she’d smelled him. A very rare occurrence indeed. His lips had been warm, not the usual cold touch of the deceased, and the heady scent of him, a mixture of pine and outdoors, was something she’d never experienced.

A shiver went up her spine. This was ridiculous. She was a professional, not some Twilight teen fan who hoped to be romanced by a cute dead guy. Her job was to help Tristan McRainey move on, to rid this home of the ghost, and then return home and start a new job. No matter how strong his ties to this world, he was only an apparition.

With a firm nod, she felt more assured, she’d set her mind straight. Now, time to find those pajamas and await the appearance of a dead man.

Every bit of the pep talk she’d just given herself flew out the window when she turned out of the bathroom and looked to the bed. Gwen stopped short.

The ghost... apparition was on his side, atop the coverlet, looking very much at home.

Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. What could she say? How was it possible for this... whatever he was… to be so real that his body made indentations on the mattress. Tunic gaped open at the neck, she spied a light sprinkling of hair. Everything about him was temptation.

“Hallo, Gwyneth.” His smooth voice melted over her like a warm blanket. “I have been waiting for you.”

The towel she’d wrapped around herself suddenly seemed to shrink under his scrutiny. Gwen fidgeted and eyed her pajamas on the bed next to him.

“Err, give me a minute.” She went as close to him as she dared and reached for the clothes.

Before she could grasp the clothes, he picked up her garments and held them up.

Holding her pajamas just out of her reach, his fingers rubbed the soft flannel. “Things have changed so much.” His eyes lowered as he studied the clothing briefly.

“I bet,” Gwen said, not daring to move any closer. He had the longest lashes, she couldn’t help but notice.

When he looked back up at her, she couldn’t stop the intake of breath, her stomach doing the stupid teen-girl flip-flop. Did he know what an enticing picture he made, lying back on her pillows, his clothing straining over the muscular perfection of his body?

As if reading her thoughts, his lips curved.

“It is tempting to forget I am a man of honor. I almost went in there.” He motioned to the bathroom with his head. “I ’ave never used an indoor waterfall to bathe under.”

“It’s called a shower,” she said, her voice barely audible, her heartbeat quickening, as she couldn’t help but picture him wet and naked. Don’t go there . She shook her head to clear her muddled mind.

Gwen cleared her throat. “I’ll just take my pajamas and then we can talk. We have much to discuss.” She inched just a bit closer to the bed reaching for her nightclothes. That was when she noticed the red stain on his shirt. He was bleeding.

“Oh my god!”

Gwen tucked the corner of the towel securing it in place and pulled his shirt open and to the wound on his shoulder. Though the injury seemed to be healing, the flesh around it healthy and pink, a trickle of blood seeped through the jagged cut, down to his chest.

“What happened?”

“Nothing of importance.” His warm breath on side of her neck made her realize she was much too close to him. The heat of his skin under her fingertips stalled her momentarily, before she snatched her hand back.

It took tremendous control to meet his gaze. “It’s not nothing . You’re injured and bleeding. It looks like a serious injury.” She couldn’t help but let her eyes wander across his chest. A feathering of light brown hair covered his pecs, beckoning her to run her fingers over them. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer the question, seeming to be distracted by his curiosity. “What is this cloth called?” He held the bottom of her towel, rubbing it between his fingers. It came dangerously close to revealing her butt to the man. She gently pulled the towel out of his grasp.

“It’s called terry cloth.” Snatching her pajamas out of his other hand, she hurried into the bathroom to change. “Don’t go anywhere,” she called over her shoulder.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Tristan muttered under his breath. He was burning up, a combination of fever and seeing a beautiful woman so scantily covered.

Gwyneth stood taller than the women he was accustomed to, almost reaching his shoulders in height, her body, tantalizing and slender. Fortunately he’d had the opportunity to study her shapely legs, as they were left exposed by the ‘terry cloth.’

From the lack of coverage, he could also tell her breasts were plump and full. He couldn’t wait to touch them, to cradle them in his palms and suckle their peaks. He adjusted his breeches to allow for the hardness of his want.

“Patience, McRainey,” he murmured, looking down at his hardening member. It twitched, getting harder when she came back out, and he almost groaned. Definitely not a good combination, being in pain and aroused.

The enchantress eyed his shoulder, but made no move to come closer. Instead she sat at the end of the bed, her legs crossed.

Her midnight tresses fell forward as she leaned over and picked up a book and pen. At once she began scribbling notes, her gaze flicking between the book and him.

“I must take advantage of your presence to ask questions so that I can help you. What year were you enchanted?” she began questioning him without preamble.

“It was 1625.”

“I was told you were given three days to get your affairs in order, before being cast into the alter-world. What did you do? What terms were you given to break the enchantment?”

Tristan treaded carefully. He had to give her enough information to help her find the right spell to free him, but not let her to be aware of his plan to seduce her.

“To prepare, I did what most men would. I got drunk and slept with as many women as I could.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

When she stopped mid-stroke and raised her eyebrows, he shrugged, the action costing him a stab of pain in his shoulder.

“With help from my advisors, I wrote my will, insuring as much as I possibly could that the McRainey lands remained in my family. I hired wizards and enchantresses to try and break the enchantment. Some collected quite handsomely, assuring me they were successful.”

He took a breath, his gaze met hers, and he felt a strong pull toward her. As if reading his thoughts, her eyes widened slightly, and she looked back down at her notes.

He continued. “I was told by a wizard who came to help that the enchantment could only be broken by an enchantress. This part was true, as it was repeated later to us by Meliot himself. That we’d know it was she, because she would be the one who unlocks our ability to move between the two worlds for longer periods and open the lines of communication with the outside world for each of us. He said each enchantress would speak the spell that would finally free us.”

“Us?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Who is there with you?”

“Four others, but that is not important at this moment.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment and then she turned back to her notes. “So the right spell, by the right enchantress, is what will free you?” Her large brown eyes met his, her thoughts unreadable.

“Aye, and there’s a matter of a sacrifice.”

“What type of sacrifice?” Her eyes met his, once again a furrowing of her brow and lips pursed.

“That portion will become apparent later.” He avoided looking at her and lowered his lashes studying the bedcovers. Then as slowly as possible, he raised his gaze to her. Hearing her intake of breath, he was sure she was not immune to him. Interesting that, after almost four hundred years, his little trick still worked on a female.

“You know my name. How?”

“I overheard it,” he replied, not entirely being truthful. He’d been able to pull it from her mind, with his limited mind-reading ability.

“What is the enchanted world like?” she asked, her eyes traveling to the gap in his shirt.

“It’s not unlike this one, only more akin to back in my time. There is land and hills, rivers and beasts. The sky is more of a purple hue than blue. Instead of one sun, there are two, sometimes three, and also two moons. The weather in the alter-world varies from mild to very hot. There are no flowers, and most vegetation is green.”

He slowed down, watching her write for a couple of beats before continuing. “We are constantly challenged to battle. There are creatures there that do not exist here, like centaurs and dragons.”

Her attention rapt, she’d stopped writing. “It sounds very dangerous—we must get you out of there at once.”

He started to sit up to reach for her hand, but winced and closed his eyes as a stab of pain knocked him back.

Gwyneth instantly hovered over him. “Are you sure you’re alright? Can I get you something?” Her concerned expression made him feel lighter than he’d felt in ages. To have someone care for him was such an alien feeling, after so many years.

“I’ll live,” he replied. When she touched his forehead with her palm, he winced again. His reaction was not from being in pain, but a woman’s touch was almost too much to bear after so long.

“Oh my goodness,” Gwyneth cried. “You’re burning up. I’ll get a cool cloth.” She ran into the bathroom.

When she came back with a cold cloth and pressed it to his brow, he sighed. He did not feel well at all, and the distraction of his fever kept him from being able to respond to the pull to return to the alter-world. The tug came again, and he met Gwyneth’s gaze. “I should go.”

“Can you do it in your current condition?”

He bristled. “Of course.”

She watched him for a few beats, her bottom lip trapped by small white teeth. “I don’t know. You don’t look too good.”

He huffed indignantly.

The coolness of the cloth was soothing; without meaning to, he allowed his heavy eyelids to close.