“And I need some clothes for her.”
“I‟ll ask Emma to take care of that. Let me know when ye‟re back.”
A stronger breeze whipped Connor‟s hair across his face, and he pushed the strands back.
An awareness sizzled through him that something was off. His senses strained, expecting something. Soon.
And then he heard it. Marielle‟s voice. Clear and beautiful. Singing a melody so sweet it made his heart ache.
“Christ,” he whispered.
“What?” Angus demanded. “Are ye all right?”
“I‟ll call you back.” He disconnected and dropped the phone into his sporran.
Her voice continued, ringing clear in the night air. She must be outside. So much for following his orders.
He descended the porch steps, and a strong wind shoved him toward the side of the cabin.
Now he realized what was off. The wind should be chilly, but it wasn‟t. He rounded the cabin, and the wind still blew at him. Strange. It seemed to be circling the cabin. Another warm gust pushed him toward the clearing in the front.
He halted with a jerk when she came into view. She was naked, standing with her back to him. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, and her curly blond hair tumbled to the small of her back. Her hips flared into an arse that could inspire poetry. Unfortunately, he‟d never been a poet, so it simply inspired another round of lust.
Snap out of it , he mentally snarled at himself. She was an angel. And she was up to something strange. Her arms were extended overhead, reaching for the stars. She tilted her head back as she sang to the heavens, and her hands moved gracefully with the music, the lovely expressive hands of a dancer.
He‟d heard once that the body was a temple, but he‟d never believed it till now. She was so beautiful. And her voice—only an angel could sound so good and pure.
The wind picked up, whirling around the cabin and playing havoc with his kilt. As he watched the trees sway and bow, he realized Marielle was in the center of the circle.
A breeze lifted her golden hair, and the long tresses seemed to float about her shoulders.
Some of the locks were dark and matted at the ends with her blood. He winced at the sight of her wounded back. Dark trickles of blood meandered down the white glowing skin.
She had to be in pain, and yet her song sounded so joyful. It made him ashamed for all the years he‟d spent grumbling and rueful. But how was he to feel when he‟d lost the only woman he ever loved, and that love had driven him to destroy his own soul?
He jerked when something warm touched his cheek, something feather soft. He looked about, but saw nothing. Wait, over there, a glimpse of movement, something sheer and white in the wind. It rushed past him, then faded to nothing.
A tinkling sound like wind chimes floated through the air, in and out of his hearing, and he strained to listen. Yes, there it was. He couldn‟t tell if it was bells or harps or perhaps both, but he‟d never heard anything so enchanting. So peaceful, as if his wandering soul had finally returned home.
Then the voices began. Male and female. Perfect in pitch and harmony, singing the same melody as Marielle. And beneath it all, he could hear and sense a low, steady vibration that stirred the air. Constant like a heartbeat. The beating of angel wings.
He closed his eyes, feeling like a lowly sinner who had accidentally stumbled upon something sacred, something no human was ever meant to see. But he couldn‟t close his ears.
The voices continued, so achingly sweet, he never wanted it to end.
More wisps of movement brushed across his face, and each time it happened, a small burst of joy would warm his heart. He opened his eyes and stepped toward Marielle. His body tingled as the warm wind enveloped him. His heart matched the rhythm of the wings beating the air. Such joy and peace—it was addictive. Bright green grass sprouted in the circle of wind, and he felt an overwhelming urge to lift his arms to
“I‟ll ask Emma to take care of that. Let me know when ye‟re back.”
A stronger breeze whipped Connor‟s hair across his face, and he pushed the strands back.
An awareness sizzled through him that something was off. His senses strained, expecting something. Soon.
And then he heard it. Marielle‟s voice. Clear and beautiful. Singing a melody so sweet it made his heart ache.
“Christ,” he whispered.
“What?” Angus demanded. “Are ye all right?”
“I‟ll call you back.” He disconnected and dropped the phone into his sporran.
Her voice continued, ringing clear in the night air. She must be outside. So much for following his orders.
He descended the porch steps, and a strong wind shoved him toward the side of the cabin.
Now he realized what was off. The wind should be chilly, but it wasn‟t. He rounded the cabin, and the wind still blew at him. Strange. It seemed to be circling the cabin. Another warm gust pushed him toward the clearing in the front.
He halted with a jerk when she came into view. She was naked, standing with her back to him. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, and her curly blond hair tumbled to the small of her back. Her hips flared into an arse that could inspire poetry. Unfortunately, he‟d never been a poet, so it simply inspired another round of lust.
Snap out of it , he mentally snarled at himself. She was an angel. And she was up to something strange. Her arms were extended overhead, reaching for the stars. She tilted her head back as she sang to the heavens, and her hands moved gracefully with the music, the lovely expressive hands of a dancer.
He‟d heard once that the body was a temple, but he‟d never believed it till now. She was so beautiful. And her voice—only an angel could sound so good and pure.
The wind picked up, whirling around the cabin and playing havoc with his kilt. As he watched the trees sway and bow, he realized Marielle was in the center of the circle.
A breeze lifted her golden hair, and the long tresses seemed to float about her shoulders.
Some of the locks were dark and matted at the ends with her blood. He winced at the sight of her wounded back. Dark trickles of blood meandered down the white glowing skin.
She had to be in pain, and yet her song sounded so joyful. It made him ashamed for all the years he‟d spent grumbling and rueful. But how was he to feel when he‟d lost the only woman he ever loved, and that love had driven him to destroy his own soul?
He jerked when something warm touched his cheek, something feather soft. He looked about, but saw nothing. Wait, over there, a glimpse of movement, something sheer and white in the wind. It rushed past him, then faded to nothing.
A tinkling sound like wind chimes floated through the air, in and out of his hearing, and he strained to listen. Yes, there it was. He couldn‟t tell if it was bells or harps or perhaps both, but he‟d never heard anything so enchanting. So peaceful, as if his wandering soul had finally returned home.
Then the voices began. Male and female. Perfect in pitch and harmony, singing the same melody as Marielle. And beneath it all, he could hear and sense a low, steady vibration that stirred the air. Constant like a heartbeat. The beating of angel wings.
He closed his eyes, feeling like a lowly sinner who had accidentally stumbled upon something sacred, something no human was ever meant to see. But he couldn‟t close his ears.
The voices continued, so achingly sweet, he never wanted it to end.
More wisps of movement brushed across his face, and each time it happened, a small burst of joy would warm his heart. He opened his eyes and stepped toward Marielle. His body tingled as the warm wind enveloped him. His heart matched the rhythm of the wings beating the air. Such joy and peace—it was addictive. Bright green grass sprouted in the circle of wind, and he felt an overwhelming urge to lift his arms to
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