Page 4 of Luthias

“Did I fall?” She squinted, trying to see something. “Hello? Buc?”

The sound of a door being flung open made her jump, but she held onto the sword tightly as an aura of light appeared. It came from a lantern, and the person holding it had on a leather gauntlet over a sleeve of rough, pale fabric.

It wasn’t her supervisor, Emery thought, and lowered the blade.

A big hand put the lantern on the table between them and turned up the flame. The brightness revealed a very tall man with long, fiery blond hair. Over his loosely-woven tunic and dark trousers he wore the same patterned tartan as the manikin in the highlander exhibit. He’d secured it with a wide brown belt studded with dark red cabochons set in elaborate rose gold filigree. Another, larger stone carved from a vivid orange gem flashed from the gold penannular brooch on his left shoulder, where it pinned his tartan to the tunic underneath it.

When he lifted his head and locked his gaze with hers, Emery’s heart skipped a beat.

Shadows made his noble features appear almost unearthly, as if he’d come from another dimension. Not a single freckle or blemish showed on his smooth, lightly tanned skin. He looked so perfect she would have thought him another manikin, except she could see his chest moving as he breathed, and the faint whiteness of his breath in the air between them. He stood well over six feet tall, and looked so well-built she wondered if he modeled for men’s fitness magazines. At that moment the light from the lantern flared and his eyes caught the reflection. His irises glittered like shards of white, lavender and violet glass, as if they’d been chiseled from amethyst crystals.

Emery felt utterly enchanted by his masculine perfection. Outside of photoshop men just didn’t look like this guy anymore. He could have been a character from an epic fantasy come to life.

He tilted his head as he looked over her. “Have you naught to say, then?” he asked, his accent plain.

He looks like that and he’s Scottish? Emery hoped he worked in her department. “Can you please help me? Someone is trying to steal this sword.”

“Aye, lass, I ken.” Those amethyst eyes flashed again, but this time with disgust. “The thief, ’twould be you.”

Chapter Two

Laird Luthias MacRoss looked down at the little wench holding the Fire Sword that she’d somehow stolen yesterday from Dun Lasair’s great hall. Bold as a Viking raider, she stood in silence but without any sign of fear, obviously thinking of some believable excuse to offer. She had no one with her, and hadn’t bothered to disguise herself as one of his female servants. No, she simply looked at him directly with her big, seemingly innocent Fae-green eyes while standing in his armory with the most precious blade in the stronghold in her hand.

Had she come to help herself to more? How could she simply stand there as if she’d done nothing wrong, and beg for his help? She wasn’t even trying to hide the sword from him.

“I’m not a thief, sir. I work here.” As she spoke, her pretty mouth framed each word as if she were offering them like kisses. She even took a step closer to him and held up the strange pendant around her neck. “What happened to the lights? Was there a power failure?”

Brazen as the wench was, he couldn’t toss her in the dungeons, Luthias thought as he looked over her delicate skin and tiny, fine-boned body. She’d freeze in a few hours. She also looked very young, perhaps only just coming into her womanhood. Her chestnut hair was as fine and feathery as a child’s. How like the Carack laird to make use of a naive maiden, he thought, growing angrier. Callum, that cruel fack, had gone too far this time.

“You’ve failed,” he assured her. “You should ken ’tisnae wise to steal from my clan. I’ll no’ spare you for being a female.”

“Your what?” She looked perplexed now. “I’m sorry, did you come to the Pelton as a historical consultant?”

As she took another step toward him he became distracted by her garments. What was this she wore? A jacket, blouse and trews of uncommonly fine weave in a shade of light indigo so rare a king might have coveted them. Her shoes had heels hewn high and narrow, that should have had her teetering with every step––or perhaps they were small daggers thus cleverly concealed. He’d put nothing past the Carack with their endless scheming.

Was this wench meant to be an assassin, and the filching of the blade a ruse to lure him to the armory alone? Why should they entrust such a wee thing to do such filthy work? He could snap her in two with one blow. And why did she speak so strangely?

He needed to hear her voice again to fathom her origins. “Give me your name, lass.”

“I’m Emery Parker, the new intern,” she said. “I overheard someone talking about this blade on the phone, and it sounded like he intended to steal it before it could be catalogued. I came to move it to someplace safe so he couldn’t do that. Look, if you could go with me to security, I’ll explain everything to them.”

He’d never heard anyone speak with her soft, odd accent, and many of the words she used sounded like gibberish to his ears. Yet she had just as well admitted to being the cohort of another thief.

Mayhap fear has made her addled.

“You wish me believe you came here to protect the sword.” As she nodded he folded his arms. “Tell me thus first: how did you manage to steal it from the hall?”

Her expression changed from puzzled to exasperated.

“I didn’t steal the sword,” she said, very patiently, as if he were a simpleton. “It’s been in here since it was delivered. I was just going to hide it to keep someone else from stealing it.” She looked over him without a shred of shame. “I’m sorry, but who are you exactly?”

“Luthias, laird of the MacRoss,” he chided. “Didnae your masters warn you of me? I’ve no pity for pilfering females. Behaving touched shallnae save you from a proper thrashing.”

“MacRoss.” Her gaze shifted to his tartan, and the confusion faded from her expression, replaced by wariness. “Clan MacRoss, okay. And you’re the laird? Really? Nice to meet you.”

Finally, it seemed, she felt some fear of him. “Dinnae fret. Speak truly, and I shall be merciful. Lie, and you shall be beaten.”

“You’re really convincing, Mister MacRoss, but unfortunately I wasn’t born yesterday.” She looked around as if searching for a way to escape him. “Have you got a phone? We should call security now. They can come to us and straighten this out.”