Ireland in 1817, when tensions are high between
Protestants and Catholics and faey people guide the fate of villagers.
The Gift
He listened to
the soft sound of slippered feet at the door. Then a hesitant knock before he
heard her enter the tiny room. He let his head rest on the back of the tub,
planning the next steps to winning over Elice Weld.
"I have bath sheets for
you." Her voice was unsure and Micha didn't like the vulnerability he
heard.
"Come in," he said. If you have the courage to confront the man
you love.
The silence that followed unnerved
him. He'd wanted so badly to pick up the pieces from where they'd left off five
long years ago. He'd been a fool to think picking up the pieces would be
remotely possible. A long campaign would only wear her down. The skirmishes
would not make her love him, nor would it regain her trust in him.
The door creaked open. The creak
was one of a long list of things to do to help Elice with the upkeep of her
home. He'd already set his men repairing fences as well as the land for spring
planting. He'd talked to them for a long time about the work, and the men he'd
brought with him were all willing to help out before they traveled home. Some
said it was a hell of a lot better than fighting.
"I'll put them on the shelves
here. Don't let me bother you." She stared openly at him for a half-second
before flushing crimson and turning her back on him. But she didn't leave the
room.
Do you like what you see? he wanted to ask. "You would never bother me.
You can stay," he told her. "Wash my back."
"When pigs fly."
He grinned. That held shades of the
woman he loved. "You don't have any," he said. "So that's hardly
fair."
Her shoulders stiffened and the
steel rod in her spine couldn't get any straighter. He needed to find a way to
bring back the woman he once knew without changing the indomitable courage that
seemed to have become her calling card.
Buck naked he rose from the bath,
water sluicing from his skin. He heard her slight gasp, and he wondered if he
had just made a huge mistake. She'd seen him naked before. Inwardly, he sighed.
One step backward and two steps forwards sometimes worked. He stepped from the
tub. He wondered if the wounds on his body upset her. She didn't look upset
just curious.
"Could you hand me a bath
sheet," he asked nonchalantly.
Her beautiful azure eyes were huge.
He watched her swallow then lift her chin a notch. She unfolded a sheet and
walked to him, holding it out. He didn't mean to make this too easy for her.
But he also didn't want to scare her away. He let her get within a few inches
before taking the sheet from her. He wrapped it around his waist and grabbed
another sheet from the counter where she'd set the rest of them. He towel dried
his hair and chest then sat down on a chair near the tub.
"I'm ready anytime you are. Do
you want to change your mind?"
"I'm not afraid of a Yankee
soldier, if that's what you're asking," she said as she put the scissors
and the razor on a table near the chair where he sat.
"Maybe you should be."
She ignored him. "Scoot the
chair out so I can get around the back," she said, the tone in her voice
told him her courage returned full force.
He obliged with a smile and a nod.
At the moment, teasing her didn't seem like a great idea so he rested his hands
in his lap and let her work her magic. When she ran her fingers through his
hair, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, wishing for things that
couldn't be right now. Beneath his ribs his heart thundered as loud as
stampeding horses. When she smoothed the soap across his jaw and upper lip, he
hardened. When she moved in front of him, his legs spread wide to let her stand
between them. He understood a need so great he'd do everything in his power to
convince Elice Weld he deserved another chance.
He groaned.
She paused, the razor hovering near
his upper lip. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"Just dandy," he said,
wondering why he'd wanted to torture himself. One of his men could have done
this.
Ah, but not as well as Elice and
not with her breasts an inch away from his mouth, not with the scent of vanilla
lingering and swirling around him, enticing every sense he possessed.
"Do you want me to take off
the mustache?"
"Yes," he choked out.
When he made love to her, he wanted to feel every soft and gentle touch of her
finger tips.
Thinking about making love brought
an unconscious reaction from him. Without giving it a second thought, he brought
his hands to her hips. His fingers tightened, his thumbs and hands exploring
while he still had the chance.
Startled, the razor nicked his
cheek. "That's probably not such a good idea," she whispered.
"What?" he asked, knowing
full well of what she spoke.
"Touch me," she whispered
raggedly.
"I thought you would never
ask," he said smoothly but let his hands drop to lap once again.
Star
Crossed
Casey pushed on the green grass, trying to unwind herself from the man
beneath her, but fell again. All right,
Casey lass, you're in a heap of trouble right now with no way out. You are
seeing the earth whirl and tumble around and you're on top of a brute of a
man--a Protestant.
"All right, lads, we'll meet here next Sunday, same place, same
time," her brother's voice filtered through the air as if it floated in
the fog that surrounded Casey.
Once again she pushed on the damp grass and didn't seem to make headway,
her arms feeling as if they'd changed to soggy twine. Don't you abandon me, Patrick O'Connell. You know I have the Devil's
own luck. If you leave me here, I'll never forgive you.
"What about Casey?" one of her brother's friend asked.
"She looks a little worse for the encounter."
"Do you think we should leave her here--with Kelly?"
"He's a right stand-up guy. Of course you can leave her here. We'll
see her home," a Shaunasey said.
"Well, Kelly is a fine bloke. He won't hurt her. In fact with my
feisty lil' sister involved, I fear for him--not her," Patrick said
laughing. "She'll do as she pleases. She always does. How can I control
her when father cannot? She does not need a second father." He shrugged
his shoulder and looked behind him at his little sister as he strolled down the
hill.
"She's hurt," another friend called after Patrick. "What
kind of brother are you?"
"One who is tired of looking after an accident prone little lass.
She has to take responsibility for herself sometime, does she not?"
"She is that," one commented. "You rescue her night and
day."
~ * ~
"You should have
blessed her with a wee bit o'Irish coordination," Oran said dryly as he
flew to a hovering position near the girl.
"And you should
remember what our blessed mother told us, 'if you cannot say anythin' nice,
don't say anything at all'." Moya rose above the flower petal, her wings
buzzing with her anger toward her brother.
"I didn't say
anything that wasn't the truth." Oran whistled out of tune for a moment.
"We could kidnap them."
"And that is your
solution to everything?" Moya pointed one finger at him and shook it.
"Why, Oran, I believe you may fancy the lass for yourself. I will not have
it. Go play your tricks on someone else's charge. She is mine to see to safety
and long life. And don't be forgettin' the lad is yours to watch over."
"You best stem
your anger, Moya. You're wings have turned golden," Oran said with a
hearty chuckle.
~ * ~
"Let Kelly handle her," Casey's brother said with a light
chuckle. "He lost and so he must deal with the object of that loss and
assume the consequences. It's only fair."
"Hey!" Kelly said, "Don't leave me here with your sister.
It will be hell to pay. She's a little girl. What will your father say?"
The others laughed. "Just don't take too long to decide what to do
with her. Little girl or not, father will come after you with his pistol."
I just turned eighteen
years old--little girl--how dare he…
"Bloody hell, Patrick. What are you thinking?" Kelly cried
out.
"I'm thinking the Catholics won this fight. What are you
thinking?" Patrick turned his back on the pair and whistled a jaunty tune
as he strolled down the hill.
"Revenge will be sweet. Next Sunday…" Kelly shook his fist at
the departing back of Casey's brother.
From what seemed like a great distance Casey heard the moan emanating
from inside her battered and bruised body. She squished her eyes together,
wishing her head didn't pound so fiercely, and the ground spin so wildly.
"Who are you?" she whispered next to the man's chest while a soft
spring breeze whispered against her heated face.
"Who am I?" the man chuckled. "Lass, you are the one who
landed atop me. I should be inquiring into who you are? Only I know." His
hands rested around her waist and squeezed as if he were testing--perhaps
exploring--entirely inappropriate. Yet for some strange reason, Casey didn't
mind the supposed to be unwanted attention. "And
I don't think your brother should have left you here with the likes of me. I'm
afraid I've landed myself in a dangerous predicament. And I'm thinkin' one that
will be very hard to explain."
"Shame on you," Casey said. "You take liberties."
The words stole her breath and she had to lean on Kelly once more in order to
minimize the pounding of her head and the strange feelings emanating from where
his hands were.
"I only want to remove you from--my--ah--person. And if I were
taking liberties with you, lass, you'd be near swooning with passion."
"Ah, it seems you are a wee bit arrogant," she opened her eyes
and gazed into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. "The color of a summer
sky," she whispered to him, still feeling woozy and not quite sure what
he'd just told her--but thinking at the moment something besides the fall
caused the earth to spin and the sky to tilt with a crazy, wild abandon.
"What is, lass?"
"Your eyes," she said, struggling against him and finally
rolling to the side so she lay sprawled on the grass, staring into the sky
she'd referred to a moment earlier and watching a white billowy cloud float
past. "I'm not a little girl," she told him. "Don't ever call me
that again."
"Then you want me to tell lies?" he asked with a lazy
half-smile that stole Casey's heart and left her floundering. "I dinna
think I can do that."
"It isn't a lie," she said, trying to sound indignant, yet
frustrated beyond anything she'd ever felt before.
Highland
Miracle
"Look,
Tia," Reagan said as she pointed toward a nearby hill.
"What is
it?"
"A handsome
stranger," Reagan giggled, instantly transfixed by the man. "Coming
to dance around the May Pole?" Reagan looked a little more closely.
"Oh, it's the Laird of Sterling Castle. Why is he on foot?"
"You are
not thinking what I think," Tia said. "You dinnae know who he is. He
looks like the laird but then he doesn't."
"How do I
look?" Regan asked, ignoring Tia and smoothing her skirts then hoping she
looked beautiful enough to snare this man. She wanted to sweep the laird off
his feet. This might be her one and only chance.
She heard the
celebration in the background and watched as all eyes rose to meet the Laird's.
Her brother William's eyes were startled then guarded and thoughtful. Tia's
were intrigued. Some of the others gazes were wary and distrustful. They were a
superstitious lot here in the Highlands. But even as she watched the people
around her, she could not fully keep her attention from the Laird who had never
attended this celebration before.
She felt a
curious draw as she met his piercing gaze. She had only once before seen the
man. He was an illusive creature, usually keeping inside the walls of his
castle. Rumor had it the castle was haunted and the ghost was a woman who kept
him from finding true love or happiness.
"Who do you
think he is and where did he come from?" Tia asked peering intently at the
man. "I really don't think it's the Laird. No one has spoken to the man in
years. He is so withdrawn. A few months ago people were saying he had
died."
The man
possessed a calm air as if he knew and recognized all the people in front of
him. His dark gaze was mysterious, and when he stopped walking, he stood as
still as a rock, striking and in clothes she had never seen anyone wear before.
She had thought then, though, it would not have mattered what he wore.
Reagan could not
draw her eyes from his and felt her flesh grow warm. The way he stared at her
was unnerving. Her heart thundered beneath her chest. It seemed as if she knew
this man from some long ago time.
But that wasn't
possible.
It was May Day.
The very air was filled with such excitement, and now this man was here as if
sent for her and her alone. In the meadow maids and youths already danced around
the Maypole. A man with a bear had the animal dancing circles upon his hind
feet, and a marionette show was in progress. A flutist played in honor of King
James, a group of Highlanders played the bagpipes. Noise and confusion
flourished. The day was bright, clear blue, and so very beautiful.
She saw a
strange gold dusting swirling and dancing in the air around her. Instantly, she
felt compelled toward the stranger. For a moment she thought someone spoke to
her, encouraging her onward.
Reagan was grateful
she'd taken so much time with her clothes. Her hose were white silk, and her
little leather slippers were blue decorated with glass stones. Next to her
flesh she wore a soft silk shift and over it a binding corset and three
different petticoats. The dress was blue brocade, with stomachers in velvet,
low-cut bodices, and half sleeves with scores of blue lace. Her facemask was
covered with feathers and plumes. Her golden hair was done in ringlets, tied
through with blue satin ribbons. When
she'd looked at herself in the mirror, she had been quite pleased with the
results.
So lost in
thought, she had lost track of the man.
Until he stood
next to her.
"A...hi," he said.
"I'm Sean Michael Sterling." He stared at her with dark dangerous
brown eyes as he crossed his arms on his chest.
