Page 80 of Lost with a Scot

She kissed him again. This time, she was lost in the best way with her Scot.

* * *

Masilda,an old woman and the matriarch of her clan of Travellers, sat by the warm fire, draped in a colorful cloak sewn with care by her beautiful daughters as a present. They camped out at the edge of the forest to keep the winter wind off the coast of Cornwall from creating too much of a chill in their bones. Their wagons were well built, but Masilda had lived many years and knew that winter was hard upon the wood. She wanted to preserve their wagons as long as she could before they’d need to consider making repairs.

She watched the flames dance as her people sang merry songs and drank warm drinks and celebrated the winter solstice. The world faded away, and all Masilda could see were the flames, and she heard the messages that whispered to her through the cracks and pops of the fire.

“So death was not the end for you after all.” She smiled as she saw the little Scottish boy she’d warned all those years ago embracing his princess, both safe. He had loved his woman despite knowing what it might cost, and fate had given him his life back for that loyalty to love.

The sound of a horse approaching stilled the revelry of her people, and she looked up at the dark-haired and dark-eyedgadjowho stopped near their camp. His great cloak swirled as he slid off his horse and approached the fire. He was blessed with looks that would make the devil himself green with envy.

Masilda spoke as she stood to face him. “Are you seeking something, sir?”

The stranger glanced around at the camp and the people.

“I seek a place to warm myself before returning to my home. I livethere.” He pointed to the distant manor house that belonged to the lord who owned the lands they were currently passing through.

Masilda beckoned to him to sit next to the fire. “Then come and warm yourself.” The man settled down on the bench close to her and stared at the flames. Masilda poured him a cup of hot tea, and he drank it with a murmured thanks.

“We will not stay long on your land,” she promised.

The man’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Stay as long as you wish. My mother was one of your people. I welcome you on my lands anytime.”

Masilda chuckled. “I thought you had the spirit inside you. You also have trouble and mischief in your eyes. You, I think, are never satisfied.”

“You know much, old mother.”

The way he saidold mothershowed he had some of the knowledge of their people.

“I do.” Masilda looked away from him and turned her attention to the fire again. The prophecies were still whispering to her between the pop and crack of logs.

“What do you see for me?” the man asked, as if he knew she was listening to the future.

“I see you running from the thing you long for most,” she said.

He tilted his head before sipping his tea and eyed her curiously. “And what is that?”

“A woman.”

The handsome stranger barked a laugh. “I’ve never run from a woman in my life.”

“You will when you realize you love her,” Masilda said.

She could see the man in the fire, waltzing with a beautiful woman in his arms. A woman he had fashioned into a dream for all other men to desire, as though he’d molded her from clay. But what he secretly wanted was the woman before she had transformed into the creature he had created.

“I’ve never been in love and never will be. Women are too boring and predictable.”

Masilda cast her gaze heavenward as she heard the challenge the man had just issued to destiny. “Only because you never give women the chance to be what they wish, and not what you expect of them.”

The man finished his tea and set the cup down. “Thank you for the tea and the warm fire.” He stood and glanced around the camp before turning to walk away.

“What is your name, my lord?” Masilda called out.

He paused at the edge of the camp’s firelight and gave her a darkly charming smile.

“Trystan Cartwright, the Earl of Zennor.” Then he mounted his horse and rode away, the night swallowing him up.