A Wee Bit O' Blarney

A WEE BIT O’ BLARNEY

…Rhian kissed him with an unexplained urgency. He returned the sentiment in kind with animal-like fury. His hands fondled her through her meager gown. She made no protest as they slipped under her dress. Warm and firm was his touch, and he knew just where to touch her. With practiced ease his fingers brushed her pale bush of blond curls before skimming her soaked vulva. “Ah, mo boidheach—my beauty—your dew-pot is overflowing.” “It’s been waiting for you. Waiting such a long time.” It was her voice. The words came from her mouth. The mouth that found any inch of her lover’s bare skin. And oh, how he tasted! Sweet, yet spicy. Fresh sweat beaded his forehead. Funky sex pheromones oozed from his pores. His heartbeat matched hers, a crazy rhythm worthy of any free-set jig and the thumping of a bodhran drum. Together they sank to the ground, cradled by lush, green grass. No protest came from her lips as her loose gown slipped off her shoulders. The sheer folds of her dress pooled above her waist. She was nearly naked to his hungry eyes. And she suspected his eyes saw many things. His head dipped to her abdomen. He nuzzled his rough cheek against her mons. “Soft as swan’s down.” He buried his nose between her vulva. “With a scent of honeysuckle and fresh summer rain.

Oh, my beauty. How your plump nether lips blush at the nearness of my mouth. Ah, look how your tender bud swells and rises to greet me. It trembles at the touch of my lips.” And so did she—writhing shamelessly as his tongue lapped at her clit. She pressed his head between her legs, urging him to possess her…

ALSO BY C HEVON GAEL Dangerous To Love Deal With The Devil Highland Fling In A Class By Herself The Last Rising Of Lazarus Moonlight Serenade Scarlet Fever Weathering Storm

A WEE BIT O’ BLARNEY BY CHEVON GAEL

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

A WEE BIT O’ B LARNEY AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2007 by Chevon Gael ISBN 978-1-60272-179-1 Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

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PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For the Irish in my blood—and to those who gave it to me..

A WEE BIT O’ BLARNEY

CHAPTER 1 Tir na nOg…a long time past… “Seamus…Seamus? Seamus O’Failan of the Cluricaun, come out where I can see you!” The bell-like voice of Darianna, Princess of the Fae, floated through the air. To any mere mortal it would seem like the merest wisp of breeze stirring the baby branches of the ancient willow tree overlooking the musical stream, so named because of the singing stones laying at the bottom. As Darianna sang the name of her forbidden beloved, the notes hovered over the trickling water, then fell, one by one, into the stream. The singing stones captured the dulcet tones and 1

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mimicked the name which fell from her lips. Darianna panicked, shrugged her pale shoulders and flitted over the telling waters. She put a slender finger to her plump, rosy lips. “Ssh, now! You’ll be telling the whole valley where we’re meeting.” The waters at once ceased their chime. Now the only sound was the trickle of water and the gentle brush of gossamer wings against the summer air as Darianna returned to the riverbank. She touched down ever so slightly so as not to disturb the tall blades of grass. All at once, a motion behind her disturbed the air. Before she could move, a sturdy hand pinched her wings together. She was caught, helpless and at the mercy of her captor. Had Fergus found her out? A kiss on her warm cheek confirmed it not to be so. “Seamus! Saints above, you scared the bejesus out of me.” But her annoyance quickly turned to relief. “Oh, my love. Where hast ye been?” The cluricaun stepped out from behind her, freeing her wings. “Waiting for you, my love.” He smiled—not exactly smiled, as cluricauns, like their once-removed leprechaun cousins, grinned. Sometimes wildly, other times, wickedly; but mostly it was a wily grin as the cluricauns were keepers of secrets of the little people and guardians of the Fae. And Seamus now kept the greatest secret of all. Darianna wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back. “Sure, but I thought ’twas my mother, who had found us out and sent Fergus to cut off your prog.” Seamus laughed, his close, red cap slipped down over his 2

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forehead and the white feather proclaiming his trade danced a jaunty jig. “I’ve better plans for my prog than for it to become another trophy on the belt of Fergus O’Roarke.” The Fairy Princess tittered and her rosy cheeks bloomed into scarlet. “And what might that be?” “You know very well, my Rian.” “I know, but I like to hear you speak the words. You’re so not like the others, with their bog-smoke pipes and reeking breath. How is it that your back isn’t hunched, nor your hands”— she drew one to her lips and kissed it—“rough from the hammer? There is no stench of tanned leather, stale pints of ale and especially”—she wriggled her nose—“horse manure.” And just to be sure, she rested her head against his blue, flax-spun shirt and sniffed. Her lover held her close in his arms and Rian gave herself up to his embrace. “Not that I mind, Seamus, for I would not let that ugly gnome of a henchman near me, no matter what he promised my mother.” She shivered at the thought of the stinking Fergus touching her. She would rather give herself up to the wrath of the outer world and be eaten by foul beasts than become the price-bride of a leprechaun. “Fear not, little one. Do I not guard the magic shilling deep in my pocket?” It was this magic shilling and not a pot of gold which every leprechaun miserly coveted and none moreso than Fergus O’Roarke, so much so that he schemed to rob Seamus and present it to Una, Queen of the Sidhe and Ruler of all the Fae, in hopes she would reward him with the hand of her daughter. 3

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“Aye,” she patted his trousers. “Next to your other treasure.” The cluricaun could only sigh at her enthusiasm. “Think you not else but copulation? We must be sly, Rian. If we are found out there will be much sorrow on both our parts. The queen will surely banish me, or worse, and Fergus will make his claim on you.” Rian lifted her head from his chest. “I shall not have him,” she declared in protest. “I’m told his leprechaun prog is the size of my tiny finger.” She wiggled the digit in emphasis. “Not like yours,” she purred until Seamus’s black eyes sparkled with mirth and pride. Seamus was of the cluricaun, the rich and handsome relations of the leprechaun. Taller and gifted in the way that made the Fae ladies swoon and blush. So much so that Seamus found the less modest of the Fae lasses swooping down upon him and lifting their veils to reveal their round bums and ripe dew-pots to him. Being gay of spirit, generous, and without the leprechaun trickery, he would thank them kindly for their offer by removing his hat to reveal a full head of thick, black hair, and bowing as they flew off. Yet he was as talented and fancy a shoemaker as any of his kin, as he’d proven when he presented Rian with a pair of pointed slippers that were now her pride and joy. Slippers of the finest, softest, spun silk, with soles of lambskin, and pale, pink ribbons. As soon as they touched her fairy feet she went up on her toes and danced until the angels wept with the beauty of it. Her flowing, golden hair swirled around her as 4

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she leapt high into the air only to land ever so lightly on the head of a dandelion. Limber and graceful were her limbs. Her emerald eyes flashed with delight. She became admired of all the Fae, and unwittingly the object of Fergus’s desire. But it was to Seamus she gave her most prized possession, her bride-bed flower. And gave. And gave. So much so that she had become careless and aroused the suspicions of her mother, who made it clear that no daughter of hers would marry a lowly cluricaun, for they were few in number now and disobedient of her rule. It was Fergus who approached the queen and pledged to watch over daughter. And so it was that the jealous Fergus schemed to curry Queen Una’s favor and forever cast Seamus O’Failan from the land of Tir na nOg. Now the lovers met in secret and shared their passion from dusk ’til dawn. Seamus took his fairy love into the meadows and cradled her against the tall grass. He lifted her modest veils and suckled the blushing tips of her pale, white breasts. He pressed his face against her nest of golden curls and breathed in the scent of her dew-pot. His tongue lapped at her ripeness and he gloried in her joyful squeals of delight. In return, Rian put her greedy mouth to work at pleasing her lover, knowing what sweet pleasure awaited her. Stiff and hard, he responded to her delicate ministrations. Smooth like the surface of polished pearls were her fairy teeth. Sweet and warm like the summer sap of honeysuckle was her breath. How welcoming she was as she spread her long, slender limbs for him in the tall grasses under the willow tree. He slid between her slick folds and easily nestled himself into her 5

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tender softness. There they tangled amidst the misty solitude of the meadow. So furiously did they copulate that the flowers drew their petals closed at the shameful couple. The Samhain moon climbed into the indigo sky and blushed at their passion. The lusty cluricaun boldly thrusting his prog staff into the dew-pot of the Fae princess until he spewed a river of seed, which over flowed the banks of her channel and spilled onto the grass that cradled them. And it was in this way that the Fae Queen, Una, the mother of Princess Darianna, and her shriveled servant did discover the lovers. So surprised were they all that several things happened at once. The frightened princess took to the air and let her dew lay wet upon the grass until the sun could rise and make it disappear into the air. Startled at being discovered and at the sudden flight of his Rian, Seamus did let the leprechaun overcome him and take the magic shilling from his trouser pocket. The queen was more strict and purveyed her fury upon him. “He who doth sully my princess daughter, Seamus O’Failan of the Cluricaun, I shall cast ye forever out of Tir na nOg!” And she pointed her powerful finger at him. But then, a curious thing happened. Fergus spoke up and cried, “Nay, my lady queen. For then shall Rian follow and find him and never return to Tir na nOg and you will be heartbroken.” The queen thought about what her servant said and made a 6

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decree. “Then here is your fate, O’Failan.” She picked up a large stone. “Herein shall your soul reside, never to be freed. It is your punishment for soiling my maiden daughter.” And with that, she reached inside Seamus and plucked out his soul. Instantly, his once handsome body became limp. He fell into the river of singing stones and loudly was the water’s lament. The grinning leprechaun took out a cob pipe and lit it. His mood was quite agreeable so he sought to ask, “And what is my reward, my lady queen?” The queen turned on him. Her mood was not so agreeable. “You shall take the stone into the other world, to the village of Blarney, and there you will watch over it lest my daughter returns to claim her lover, for only with her kiss can Seamus O’Failan be set free.” The leprechaun was clearly dismayed by this edict. “But why are you punishing me? Did I not bring you to discover their deceit?” Queen Una glowered at him. “Yes, and now my daughter has departed from the Fae kingdom. And you have stolen the shilling from your brethren and proved yourself a thief. Begone from my sight.” And with one sweep of her arm did she send Fergus and the stone to Blarney in the other world. Then, she stood alone beneath the willow tree by the river of singing stones and wept until dawn. In the morning a black raven did drop into her lap a pair of pink satin slippers, the toes worn from dancing, and the Queen knew that her daughter lived among the Fae no more. So great was her grief that her tears fell into the river and soon the river could not 7

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hold so much unhappiness. The tears spilled over and became the rain which fell from the sky into the other world. The angels, seeing Queen Una so unhappy and being deprived of the beautiful Darianna, searched in vain for her, but found only a tiny patch of gossamer wings. And so they made a plant from the color of her eyes and cast it upon the ground of the other world below Tir na nOg, across the land until it reached the border of the seas. But this was not enough to comfort the queen. So they gathered a vapor of Darianna’s last breath and tried to brighten the sky through the queen’s tears. A gentle slash of color appeared across the sky. Still it was not enough. The queen returned to reign among the Fae for many ages. The river of singing stones flowed no more in Tir na nOg. The water instead fled to the other world to become the river which flows into the village of Blarney. Many ages later a castle was built on the very spot where Fergus was dispatched with the stone and the imprisoned soul of the cluricaun.

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CHAPTER 2 County Cork, Ireland…some time later… “Excuse me, buddy, but that’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.” Rhiannan MacNamara crossed her legs and was careful not to lean too far back on her stool. She locked her doubtful gaze with that of the barkeep behind the counter. The wizened proprietor’s face finally split into a wide grin and the regulars seated around the bar laughed. “You tell that tale to all the tourists, mac?” “It’s not ‘mac,’ it’s ‘Mick,’ or ‘Mickey’ if you like. And, yes, most peoples gets a version of it. Another pint of black?” The bartender, Mickey Flannagan of Flannagan’s Pub, hit the 9

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draft lever a couple of lines to clear the line. Rhiannan offered up her empty glass. “Sure, whatever. Easy on the foam this time, Mickey. Say, why is everything black in this country? The beer—” “Stout!” came a chorus of shouts around her. “Yeah, the stout is black, the bread is black, the meat is black.” “Oi! Where’s your red-headed friend?” Rhiannan turned to one of the local Romeos who’d been stalking her and Kat all night. It didn’t matter that he was short, stocky, and had a pug face with a mouth like a longshoreman. It was okay by Rhiannan because he’d plunked down his cash for the last two rounds. “She’s out having a smoke,” which Rhiannan knew really pissed off Kat considering they’d dragged their tired assess off an endless economy red-eye from Boston, found that their luxury transportation was some piece of shit Euro sardine can with a stick shift that neither she nor Kat could drive, and that their spacious accommodations were a non-smoking closet in a bed-and-breakfast which served nothing but black food in the morning. Now the only pub in town turned out to be some smoke-free meat market with a stereotype Irish barkeep who told rude fairy stories. Rhainnan shook her head. “I can’t believe the BCDC chose this place for my farewell performance,” she muttered. The black-haired pug in turtleneck and tweed eyed her. “You’re that dance bird from America, then.” “Could be. Blarney is about to be inundated with Irish10

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American dancers. But don’t worry.” She leaned over to reassure Mr. Pick-Up Artist. “The odds are good you’ll get lucky with somebody.” Rhiannan accepted her stout with a tired, “thanks,” and grimaced at the shamrock figure etched into the foam. Cute! She put the glass to her lips when a hard slap on her shoulder caused her to lose her grip. Creamy foam and dark liquid splashed over her fingers and dripped onto the bar. “Kat! Look what you made me do.” “Sorry.” Kat turned around and yelled, “Somebody call Kelly. There’s beer on the bar!” In addition to horny leprechaun stories, apparently some lush named Kelly would suck up spilled beer if you tossed him a couple of euros. The locals laughed and Mickey rushed to clean up the mess. Moments later, Rhiannan had another pint, courtesy of the owner. “I came in on the tale-end of your rant about the BCDC. C’mon, Rhian. The Boston Celtic Dance Company is picking up the tab for an all-expenses paid trip to this wonderful green isle. Let’s overachieve and not disappoint them by blowing their budget.” Rhian raised her glass. “I’ll settle for a half-decent sprung floor. I don’t need to fracture what’s left of my knees by dancing on stone.” Kat tossed her shoulder-length mane of red curls, which Rhian knew was driving the testosterone of Paddy-what’s-hisname a little crazy. “I think it’s thrilling. A live performance, taped for PBS and starring…ta-da…you!” 11

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“And you, too, Kat. Now, what are you drinking?” “Um, soda water with lime. You know my hips. Too much stout will make me stout and any more bread and potatoes and I’ll be the sugar plump fairy. You’re so lucky, Rhian. You can eat anything and not gain an ounce. I put on any more weight and my pas-de-deux partner will need a block and tackle to lift me. Speaking of ballet, have you decided to teach when you retire?” Rhian had asked herself the same question over the last few months. At thirty-two, and already coming off the injury list with a fracture, she couldn’t see herself maintaining her position with the Celtic side of the dance company. A torn Achilles tendon had almost ended her ballet career as a principal dancer. Between her orthopedic surgeon, her massage therapist, and physiotherapist, the prognosis was grim. She was one injury away from an administrative job. “Depends on how this performance goes. I’d like to take my bow and exit gracefully, not be carried off the stage.” “So, you’re the one who’s to dance at Blarney Castle, then.” Rhiannan eyed Mickey, who passed a pint glass of soda water to Kat. “Now that’s one story you can tell the locals and the tourists. I know it’s not as interesting as the little man with the big dick and the horny fairy princess, but you can tell your patrons that the famous Rhiannan MacNamara is here to dance on behalf of the BCDC and raise money for the castle restoration project. But until then, my faithful understudy and I”—she slipped her arm around Kat’s shoulder—“are going to 12

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see the sites and do cheesy tourist trap things. Right, Kathleen Callaghan?” Kat touched her glass to Rhian’s. “Right. And the first thing we’re going to do tomorrow is visit the famous Blarney Castle, climb up a thousand stone steps, hang upside down and kiss a rock. Hey, all that climbing will be good exercise for my ass. Maybe I will have some of that black, creamy stuff.” “I have an exercise for your ass.” The women ignored Paddy’s remark. Rhian perused their surroundings, deciding that Flannigan’s of Blarney Village had earned its brochure boast as Ireland’s fourth oldest pub. The heavy timbers crossing the ceiling, the burnt gray stone of the central fireplace and the scarred wooden floors were a step back in time when men were men and… “I like to give you some creamy stuff.” Well, men were still men, and Kat was welcome to him. Rhian turned at the slurred rumble behind her and rolled her eyes. Ah…beer! Helping ugly little men have sex for a millennium. Her friend was blushing and basking at pick-up lines older than Flannigan’s. And if women were still women, she’d be going back to Mary McCarthy’s B & B alone. “Paddy O’Roarke! Mind your manners. There’s ladies present.” Old Flannigan turned to Rhian. “Never mind him. Sean O’Casey will be by in a bit. He’s a fair hand with the Uilleann pipes. Sometimes Davy Butler brings his low whistle and they have a session in the corner by the fireplace. Of course, Mrs. Mac’s son, Arthur—that be the Mrs. Mac where 13

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you’re staying—he fiddles if Sean is buying. Ah, but it’s all grand craic.” Kat leaned close to Rhian and whispered, “Can you translate?” “Basically, the local band comes in. They play, drink, and everybody has a good time.” “Cool. Just like Saturday night at Kitty O’Sheas.” “Something like that, only without the after party where everyone strips down and swims naked in the Boston Common swan pond and gets banged by Jimmy Reardon.” “Hey, that was just a rumor. You can’t prove it was me. And as for banging James Reardon, I know for a fact the principal male dancer of the BCDC was on the rebound from being rejected by its female principal dancer. Ring any bells?” It did, but Rhian chose not to comment. “Anyway, let’s stay.” “Let’s not. Try to remember we have a date with a rock tomorrow.” It was Paddy who answered on Kat’s behalf. “You don’t want to be doing that, now.” Rhian drained her glass, set it down on the faded mahogany, and pushed it toward Mickey with a shake of her head, indicating she was done for the night. “And why is that?” Kat found her tongue. “Rhian, you’ve got to listen to this. It’s just too funny.” Rhian sighed. She didn’t think there was anything funny about being up for nearly two days and wearing the same 14

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leather jacket, tank, and jeans for the same amount of time. The excited rush of travel had worn off. Mrs. McCarthy’s four-poster bed and the tiny room that must have been built around it were beginning to look pretty good. “Can I take pass on the local lore, Kat? I’m bagged and I need to go to bed,” she looked past Kat over to Paddy. “Alone!” Kat leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Paddy says the local kids sneak in at night and piss on the stone.” “Eeww!” Rhian felt her face morph into a grimace at the mere thought. “Ick. And here I thought you were going to entertain my poor, North American brain with something more palatable like trolls and unicorns.” Mickey piped up. “You, Paddy O’Roarke. Stop that nonsense. It’s the Cluricaun’s Curse you should be warning her about.” “A clerk’s hand what?” “Cluricaun, Kat. My granny used to feed me gory tales about fae folk enchanting children who didn’t eat their veggies.” “Mick Flannigan, who listens to that piss n’wind crap anymore? There’s no more a curse on the stone than…than there’s unwatered whiskey behind yer bar.” Rhian and Kat turned their backs and cooed, “Ooooh!” and giggled. “I think we’re outa here before a donnybrook breaks out.” “Donny who?” “Never mind, Kat.” She nudged Kat toward the door, 15

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leaving the men in heated discussion. But as Rhian nudged, Kat suddenly refused to budge. Horny Paddy had left his prime spot at the bar and made his way over to where they stood. He snaked his arm around Kat and whispered something into her ear. Kat giggled and nodded. Rhian braced herself for the brush off. “Do you mind if I catch up with you later?” “Do I have any choice? Just make sure Romeo knows where to bring you—after.” Kat winked at Rhian, then snuggled up to black-haired Paddy. “So tell me about this curse, my fine, Irish laddie…” Rhian watched as Paddy led Rhian out the pub’s entrance and into the cool, calm night. A chill gust of wind wandered in through the open door. Rhian shivered and rubbed her arms through her leather jacket. There was something unsettling about the mention of the cluricaun. Rhian hadn’t thought about Granny’s childhood fairy tales in years. She was never sure if Granny believed they were real or simply one of the many myths Granny’s family had carried to Boston generations ago when the MacNamaras left Ireland in search of greener pastures. Greener than Ireland? Rhian felt that hard to believe the first time she set eyes on her ancestor’s homeland. Shades of green, rich tones, and indescribable hues of emerald painted the landscape between the Dublin airport and Blarney Village in Cork. You’ve Irish eyes, Rhian, lass. The color of the wild, green pastures with flashes of fairy light. 16

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Of course Granny Mairdrid had macular degeneration and was blind by the time she was sixty, but it didn’t stop her toes from tapping out the rhythms of jigs and reels at the weekly Saturday night ceili in the old neighborhood, or teaching Rhian a three-hop or a battering step. Granny, who passed on her most precious possession to Rhian—her traditions and a worn pair of lambskin gillies wrapped in sheep’s wool and stored in a silk bag. The same gillies Rhian wore the year she became national Celtic dance champion. A low, mournful cry came from the back of the pub. Uilleann pipes. Rhian turned and followed the sound. Seated by the open fireplace were two men. She assumed the piper was Sean O’Casey. The man next to him limbered his fingers and licked his lips before plucking a tin or low whistle from his lap. A murmur through crowd confirmed it was Davy Butler. They were handsome men—tall, black-haired, and dark eyed. They didn’t speak to each other, merely a nod of salutation. Together the men and their instruments settled on a ballad. The crowd in the pub abandoned the bar in favor of a seat near the music. Hypnotic and haunting, ancient and sad. The music reached deep inside her and spoke to her soul. Then a tenor voice joined the melody. A wavering voice, poignant and lilting and definitely straining under a little too much of the drink. A Gaelic voice singing words in a language and dialect Rhian hadn’t heard in nearly a quarter of a century. A sudden sadness, along with a huge wave of regret, washed over Rhian. 17

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She’d forgotten Granny’s words and what they meant. Somewhere along the way the traditions had faded. Granny had passed away and Rhian’s career took her further from the old ways. Only the dance remained and the clock was ticking down on that, too. Bone tired and now melancholy, Rhian left Flannigan’s, walked the quarter mile back to Mrs. Mac’s, and slipped in through the guest entrance. She settled into the oak four-poster bed and snuggled into the down comforter. She stared into the darkness for several minutes, trying to wind down and not obsess over her schedule for the next two weeks, along with what she felt sure were all the things that could go wrong in the days leading up to the show. Finally she willed her brain into placid thoughts. In the moments before she dozed off, she imagined herself by the banks of an enchanted stream, wearing pink, satin slippers and dancing before a pair of adoring black eyes.

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CHAPTER 3 “Rhian…Rhian, my love. Come to me. I’m here. I’m waiting.” She was lost in a sea of mist. She looked down. The ground beneath her was gone. Not gone, exactly. It had slipped away until it was only a tiny spec in the distance, as if she were in an airplane and watching it fade from site. Yet she wasn’t afraid of falling. She hovered lightly, bound by a blanket of fog. Then the blanket was swept away to reveal what she could only describe as a slice of heaven. A green bank of soft grasses by a trickling stream. A large willow tree with a full flush of finger thin branches so long that their ends dipped into the water. 19

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She parted the branches. A figure of a man stood outlined in the shadows. He turned then and Rhian could see his face. A fair face with shining eyes, coal black with a tiny glint of starlight. The hint of a breeze rustled his full head of dark, thick hair, causing the strands to fall rakishly across his wide forehead. His full lips parted into a wide smile displaying a dazzling set of strong, white teeth. He was dressed in a simple cream-colored shirt, open from neck to waist, revealing a mass of curling, dark hair across his chest. His plain, brown breeches rode teasingly across his hips and tight at the crotch. So tight that Rhian could see the outline of a very impressive package—one that grew larger as he approached her. He walked toward her with leisurely stealth. His darkly tanned, knee-high boots left no tracks on the damp grass. In truth, he was the most sensually elegant rogue Rhian had ever seen. And she wanted him—bad! The way he looked at her turned her knees to water. Her mons twitched in anticipation. Her breasts tingled and the nipples pursed against the bodice of the short diaphanous slip she wore, a garment not unlike the newly designed costume she was to wear performing at the gala. Yet she knew she’d worn this garment before, been to this place before, and with this man. This man who advanced with purpose. The black eyes were deep and hungry, the kind of hunger that had only one satisfactory outcome. Rhian felt herself blush. No man had ever looked at her like that. No one— except him. She felt herself grow wet with desire. Her entire sex throbbed. 20

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He opened his arms to her. Rhian did the same. She was in his arms and, it seemed, she was trying to make him part of her. She kissed him with an unexplained urgency. He returned the sentiment in kind with animal-like fury. His hands fondled her through her meager gown. She made no protest as they slipped under her dress. Warm and firm was his touch, and he knew just where to touch her. With practiced ease his fingers brushed her pale bush of blond curls before skimming her soaked vulva. “Ah, mo boidheach—my beauty—your dew-pot is overflowing.” “It’s been waiting for you. Waiting such a long time.” It was her voice. The words came from her mouth. The mouth that found any inch of her lover’s bare skin. And oh, how he tasted! Sweet, yet spicy. Fresh sweat beaded his forehead. Funky sex pheromones oozed from his pores. His heartbeat matched hers, a crazy rhythm worthy of any free-set jig and the thumping of a bodhran drum. Together they sank to the ground, cradled by lush, green grass. No protest came from her lips as her loose gown slipped off her shoulders. The sheer folds of her dress pooled above her waist. She was nearly naked to his hungry eyes. And she suspected his eyes saw many things. His head dipped to her abdomen. He nuzzled his rough cheek against her mons. “Soft as swan’s down.” He buried his nose between her vulva. “With a scent of honeysuckle and fresh summer rain. Oh, my beauty. How your plump nether lips blush at the 21

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nearness of my mouth. Ah, look how your tender bud swells and rises to greet me. It trembles at the touch of my lips.” And so did she—writhing shamelessly as his tongue lapped at her clit. She pressed his head between her legs, urging him to possess her. “Patience, mine own! First my tongue shall dance across your bud. My lips shall suckle at your swollen ripeness until the lust claims you. Then I shall drink the sweetness from your well before I unleash my prog and brand you as my own.” Rhian felt helpless at the expert ministrations of her lover. He knew exactly where to touch her, how and when. It was as if she were watching herself on a screen. But that couldn’t be her, writhing against the dark head feasting between her thighs. Where those really her sighs rolling across the air, carried by the gentle breeze and rustling through the green willow’s leaves? Sighs so passionate that the stems buckled and faded to autumn gold under the burden of viewing her wanton, naked flesh. Then her lover raised his head, his cleanshaven face wet with the juice of her sex. Rhian saw herself raise her arm and brush her thumb across his cheek. The man’s lips captured her thumb and sucked it noisily. She could smell her pungent fluid on the wind. The scent electrified her. Her mirror image reached for the man’s breeches. He covered her hand and helped her loosen the laces. She could feel the soft, tanned hide under her fingertips. The warmth of his body radiated off him. The evidence of his own arousal was unmistakable. Boldly she trailed her fingers over the bulge. It was hot and alive under her touch. 22

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“Surely you are the most potent of the cluricaun! How I long to feel the heat of your skin next to mine. Nay, deny me no longer!” The adoring eyes sparkled and deepened. The pleasurable smile turned to hunger. “Say my name, lovely nymph. I need to hear your voice. Say it!” “Seamus.” “Rhian…” “Say it again.” “Seamus!” “Rhian, wake up!” Her eyes opened to find an anxious Kat bending over her. Although Rhian was not surprised to see Kat still wearing yesterday’s clothes, she was alarmed at seeing her friend in their bedroom with the door wide open. Worse yet, she saw the burly Mrs. Mac in the background, a disapproving frown on her pudgy face. The woman stood with her mannish hands parked on her wide hips and wrapped in the most unflattering chenille robe Rhian had ever seen. The waking nightmare was topped off with a mesh of black netting covering her silver hair, along with several metal clips, which threatened to topple off her head. The woman’s beady eyes darted around the room, finally settling on the vintage double-hung window frame where the chintz curtains were still drawn. “I think it was only a bad dream, Mrs. Mac.” Kat explained tactfully, than added, “She’ll be okay. I’ll stay with her.” 23

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Their host craned her wrinkled neck and gave the room and its occupants one last glance, then grabbed the doorknob. “Breakfast in an hour,” she croaked before closing the door. “Eesh!” Kat grimaced and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Now there’s an argument for moisturizer. Did you see all her dry, crinkly skin? That woman has a leather chest.” Rhian sat up and pushed back the comforter. Kat flung herself down beside Rhian and bounced up and down on the mattress a couple of times. “I don’t know what she was thinking, but you can’t fart in this bed without the springs creaking.” “You just got in, I assume.” Kat yawned. “You got that right. I was just putting my key in the door when I heard you thrashing around and yelling. I hoped against hope that you might be getting laid but, alas…” She sighed and began to peel off her clothes. Rhian tried to put the timing together. “So you weren’t here at all last night.” “No, Mommy.” Then she turned and blinked at Rhian. “Are we jealous or just disappointed?” “And you had to use the key to get into the room, meaning I locked the door.” “Yes, Mommy.” “And the window hasn’t been opened.” Kat shrugged. “What’s with the inquisition? I need to shower and grab some sleep.” Rhian wasn’t sure how to answer her, so she quickly changed the subject. “How’d it go with horny Paddy?” 24

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Kat answered with a dissatisfied sneer. “That good, huh.” Kat held up her hand and wiggled her little finger. “Like that! When they say Ireland is full of little people, they ain’t kidding.” Rhian pouted in mock sympathy. “Poor Kat. Cheer up. Master Reardon will be along sometime next week. In the meantime, we’ll walk into town later and go shopping. I hear there’s a local market that sells woolen shawls and sweaters.” “Okay. I’m up for shopping anytime. Let’s go and do the castle thing and get it out of the way. Who’s driving?” “No one, unless you want me to attempt a thirty-six point turn out of that driveway.” Rhian nodded toward the cut-grass path that acted as guest parking according to the hand-painted sign leaning up against the stone wall at the edge of Mrs. Mac’s property. “You want us to walk up that hill to the castle,” Kat whined and moaned at the prospect. “Hey, I thought you wanted to walk off the stout.” “Yeah, but that was before the whiskey shots and my unfortunate encounter with the teeny-peeny.” “How bad, Kat?” “Mild in comparison to my other hangovers, but not enough to keep me from smoking my credit cards.” Kat sat up. “I’m off to hit the shower.” Rhian waited until Kat was in the bathroom with the water running before she got out of bed and went over to the window. She pushed the curtains back and examined the 25

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window. There was no sign that it had been opened last night or anytime recently for that matter. The latch was closed and had, in fact, been painted over. The caulking was weathered. It must have been a dream after all. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the pane. For all the sleep she did manage to get last night she was still tired. She cringed at the thought of having to go to the castle and check out the preparations for the performance. Whether she climbed the castle stairs to kiss the wretched stone was still up for consideration. Maybe she’d feel better after breakfast. She opened her eyes and stared at the castle turrets in the distance. It was inexplicably unsettling to have something so imposing looking down on her. Yet her ancestry admired and appreciated the castle for what it was—part of Ireland, part of Granny, and part of her. She closed the curtains with a quick whoosh! She unpacked her clothes and determined what needed to be pressed and what could wait for until the rest of the Company arrived. The costumer would be bringing her performance dance dresses. Rhian unzipped her shoe bag and removed her concert shoes. She didn’t trust the entourage with her shoes. They always traveled with her, especially Granny’s gillies. She laid her shoes out on the floor at the end of the bed. Various practice shoes, three pairs of performance hard shoes and toe-walkers, pointe shoes and spare ribbons and laces. She had to schedule a practice as soon as the stage was installed, which might not be for another week. In the meantime, she hoped to find a local dance school where she 26

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could work out. Right now, all her body wanted was a long, relaxing soak. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt physically exhausted and sore, as if she’d fallen off the stage and landed on a cement floor. Rhian assumed it was all the time in the plane, sitting in a small, cramped space. She hoped Kat hadn’t used up their ration of hot water. The bathroom door opened and Kat emerged, a cloud of steam escaping behind her. “It’s all yours, girlfriend,” Kat said as she bent over and wrapped her long, wet hair in a towel. “Did you leave me any hot water?” “Yes, and dry towels. I expect I’ll be in beddy-bye land when you come out, so keep it down, huh. No yelling and thrashing in the shower or you’ll get us kicked out of here.” Rhian slipped into the bathroom without answering. She pulled her nightgown over her head and shook out her hair. She looked in the mirror and gasped. She looked down at her naked body and back at the mirror. She wasn’t seeing things. There were bruises on her breasts and neck. She stood there, her fingers gently touching the marks on her skin and trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She tried to justify the source of the bruising. Was it the airplane seat belt? Had they flown through turbulence? She couldn’t remember. Was it the shoulder strap from their tiny car and the less than perfect country roads they endured? She was alone last night. She had to be— “Ick!” Kat! 27

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“Yuck! Rhri-aaannn…” Rhian quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. She opened the bathroom door and stuck her head out just in time to see Kat climbing out of bed. The woman threw back the comforter and top sheet before tearing the bottom sheet off the mattress. “What is it?” “This!” She held up the bottom sheet. In the daylight, Rhian could see the circular stain on the sheet. “Wet spot alert. Listen, I don’t know what you were up to last night, but the only wet spot I sleep in is my own.” With that, Kat crumpled up the sheet and tossed it on the floor. Then, she looked at Kat, an expression of concern clearly written on her face. “Don’t tell me it’s another yeast infection. What have I told you about changing your tights ’n’ ’tards as soon as they get wet. Two words, okay—cotton undies—those polyester thong things will do it every time.” Rhian licked her lips and cleared her throat. There was nothing like a plausible explanation in the nick of time. She murmured a quiet, “Yup” and quickly closed the door. Shock, exhaustion and confusion were taking its toll. She waited until she heard Kat get back into bed before running the shower. Once inside the tiny stall, she scrubbed herself nearly raw. After drying off she followed with handfuls of moisturizer. She slipped out of the bathroom and quietly dressed. After leaving the room and locking up behind her, she thought to exit Mrs. Mac’s without having to encounter the woman or her 28

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disapproving glances again. Rhian’s luck was running true to form—all bad. “And where would you be off to without breakfast?” The hair net had been replaced by a head scarf, the bathrobe with an equally unflattering house dress and massive apron. Rhian’s appetite fled at the site of the stumpy, unshaved legs covered in sagging support stockings. “Uh, I have to get up to the castle.” “It’ll not be open until eleven. Set yourself down and eat.” Rhian was about to mutiny on her host, but the woman’s next words stopped her. “Set down and I’ll tell you all about the Cluricaun’s Curse.”

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CHAPTER 4 Rhian sat at the large oak dining table and listened intently to Mrs. McCarthy’s version of the so-called Cluricaun’s Curse. “To be sure, miss. And to this very day, he waits for the kiss that will set him free.” Rhian picked at her cold salmon which looked only less enticing than the bowl of quickly cooling, pasty oatmeal. Despite her previous night’s bitching, the trencher of dark bread looked pretty good. Of course there was a massive pot of tea. There was always tea. Mrs. McCarthy must have noticed her guest’s lack of appetite. “The bar’s also open at eleven,” she said flatly, her beady 30

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eyes critically assessing through her worn, apple-doll face. She reminded Rhian of Granny in that way. Come to think of it, everyone she’d seen in Blarney so far seemed to have the same look about them—wizened eyes, old and ageless. The young, the old. It didn’t matter. Rhian cleared her throat and cut off a piece of salmon. It tasted about as good as it looked. She smiled wanly and swallowed, then pushed the salmon away. “Must be jet lag.” What this town needed was a really good barista. Rhian settled for pouring a large mug of tea, which seemed to please Mrs. Mac, who pushed a creamer and sugar bowl in her direction. Rhian disregarded the sugar in favor of honey, which satisfied her sweet tooth and gave her a natural boost of energy. “Legend has it that this sidhe was so fair and lovely that the other fairy folk, that be the leprechauns, pookas, cluricauns and the like, were struck dumb when they looked upon her.” “My granny, Mairdrid MacNamara, was from Cork. She used to tell me stories about fairies—” “Sidhe,” Mrs. Mac corrected. “Yes, the sidhe. She said they used to be angels.” Mrs. Mac nodded, sending silver strands loose across her wrinkled brow. “The sidhe race were once angels in heaven, but were cast out as a punishment for their pride. But they’ve a right to be proud. Their fairy dance is magic.” Rhian found it mildly amusing that Mrs. Mac chose to speak of mythical creatures in the present tense, as if they hung out in some crib in the local hood. Rhian knew better than to contradict Mrs. Mac. She might be Boston born and 31

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raised, but the lore of all things Irish were instilled by Granny at an early age. She glanced at her watch and sighed inwardly. She had another half hour at this before she could respectfully depart. “And they love milk and honey. It fuels their dance. And fairy women are beautiful when they dance. Lithe forms, graceful and enchanting. They wear disgraceful silver gossamer robes and can lure any man, even the most chaste and pure of heart, into a powerful spell. Why, with just one kiss, the madness of love will fall upon the man and he is lost to his kindred race forever.” “Fascinating.” It was, sort of. Like most Irish Rhian knew, Mrs. Mac had a way with a tale. “Mrs. Mac, are you sure you haven’t kissed the blarney stone?” Mrs. Mac have a raspy hoot, followed by a fit of coughing. Rhian pushed her chair back, ready to aid the woman but she shook her head and pounded her chest with her fist. “Blarney and bullocks, so ’tis, miss. Rhiannan and Seamus. To be sure, I takes me cut from Fergus at the castle if I send him business.” But Rhian’s brain stopped at the name Seamus. “What was, er, are, the names in this fairy tale?” Rhian laced her fingers around her tea mug and tried not to let them tremble. “Pulled ’em out of a Gaelic name book, did Fergus. That’s the guide who takes people on the castle tour and minds the stone. Just ask for Fergus O’Roarke and tell him I sent you. You can’t miss him, an ugly pug, just like his son, Paddy.” The light in her eyes suddenly dwindled. Her mouth turned 32

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into a grim frown. “Yes,” she said softly. “Everyone knows Fergus.” But Rhian couldn’t dismiss their conversation without one last question. “And the dancing fairy’s name is…” Mrs. Mac seemed to recover herself. “Oh, well, it’s whomever is sitting at this table. If it were your friend, for instance, then her name would be Kathleen, or Mairdrid or Enya or Van Morrison.” She paused and laughed again, “But Seamus is always Seamus. It’s Gaelic for—” “John. Yes, I know. Granny told me. That was my grandfather’s name. Interesting.” So much for Irish Genealogy 101. For all Mrs. Mac’s local embellishment of the tale, Rhian did feel much better about what happened last night. Perhaps is was just sleeping in a different bed and thinking of Granny—not to mention the stout—which caused the dream. She decided the wet spot thing was a simple case of sweating under the comforter. There really was no other explanation. “Thanks, Mrs. Mac. I’m off to the castle to kiss a rock.” With that, she rose and grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair. “Rhian.” Rhian turned to find Mrs. Mac staring at her, this time with concern etched in her worn face. “It is a Friday, after all.” “Yeah. I forgot. I swear I’ve lost two days on this trip with the time change and the flight. By the way, what’s so special about Friday?” “The fae have special powers on Fridays.” 33

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Rhian blinked in ignorance. So it was Special Power Friday at the mall? Had she missed something during the lesson? She decided to be polite. “And these powers would be…” “It’s the day when the male fae, be they fairies, or leprechauns and their kin, steal mortal girls to be their brides. Take care.” Rhian slipped into her jacket. “Right. Fairy wedding day at city hall. I’ll take my camera.” Then she saw Mrs. Mac wink. The lines around the woman’s mouth deepened as she afforded Rhian a playful grin. “Okay, then. Another cut for visiting the city hall. On Friday. Gotcha!” Rhian left the B & B and set off for Blarney Castle. *

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Fergus O’Roarke screwed up his prunish face as he stared down from his pulpit in the castle. If Paddy had done his job, that American whore wouldn’t be showing her face around here today. But what about tomorrow, or the next day? Or next week? If what he’d been told was true, then today was the only day the woman was free to nose around. And she didn’t need to be nosing around Blarney Castle. He grinned and grunted before shoving the short stump of a pipe between his teeth. He lit the pipe and within seconds, a thick circle of smoke ringed around his head. He thought of the irony of the tourists and his own people. The endless legends of leprechauns, of little people and wee folk written up in glossy 34

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brochures, gay and green and kicking up their heels; the lore of Ireland stamped on a cocktail napkin when all the time it was right under their own noses. Not for nothing did his race possess charm and magic. They’d kept their presence a secret while hiding in plain site for hundreds of years. Tricksters they were; practical they had to be. Walk into any shoe shop, leather tannery or tailor’s concession and you’d find them doing what they did best, hammering over a brogue! A wink and a nod or the twitch of a squat nose singled them out amongst their own kind. Except for Fergus. Trapped and cursed as his forefathers had been to guard over this wretched stone. And for what? Every incarnation of life he’d had held the same dismal fate. Poor, ugly, stagnant. Sentenced to a monotonous task with no respite from the never-changing landscape viewed from the castle heights. Nothing but that rock as company. Even his evening ritual ceased to give him pleasure. Locking up after the tourists at the end of the day, then climbing back up the stairs to stand at the precipice overlooking the stone. After spitting out a bitter, “Fock ye, Seamus O’Failan,” Fergus would drop his trousers, haul out his withered meat and piss on the stone. But since his only offspring in this lifetime had a bad temper and a loud, foul mouth after a few too many brew, the Irish National Trust had seen fit to post a night guard after closing. Damn that fool Paddy! Too fond of the drink was this half-breed—the result of Fergus’s own failing with the craeture and the barmaid who was only too happy slip the stingy leprechaun a free drink, or two. Or three. And Paddy. 35

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Now there was a plonker! Listless and easily bored, he possessed all the human frailties of the woman who bore him and none of the furtive spirit of his ancestors. The magic had been bred out of him. The only magic he possessed was the Blarney gift of eloquence which he wasted on sluts. Fergus spat on the stone floor. Immediately a faint tremble rippled under his feet. He curled his mouth into a sneer. That damned cluricaun’s soul was restless tonight, as it had been for several days now. Fergus at first congratulated himself for dispatching Paddy to watch over the two Americans staying in the village. But his cleverness soon turned to disgust when he’d returned late last night to find Paddy plugging the red-haired whore. He figured things would soon settle back to normal once the women had been dissuaded from visiting the castle, as Paddy said they were due to the distasteful rumors and being too busy with the dance. And that was another stick in his craw! This benefit performance brought too many strangers to the castle. A unique irony since the village depended on the economy of tourism brought by the castle and its legendary stone. Normally Fergus didn’t give a rat’s ass who came and went. The tourists could plunk their money down and kiss a donkey’s arse for all he cared. Seamus’s bastard soul had been entombed for what seemed to Fergus like an eternity. If Darianna’s soul hadn’t shown up by now, it wouldn’t. Fergus had long since given up the idea that she’d survived to be reborn as fae, or any other creature, and return to free her 36

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lover. Still, something had awakened the cluricaun. Fergus thought on the problem as he puffed and spat. It might not be a simple coincidence that the flame haired slut and the tow-headed bitch Paddy had met in Flannigan’s arrived at almost the very moment the stone had trembled with an angry presence. And for the first time since he’d been banished from the realm of the fae and sentenced to penance as keeper of the stone, Fergus O’Roarke had the uneasy feeling that the stone was now watching him. *

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Rhian joined a modest group of people at the tail end of the tour. She dutifully listened as their guide, Davy Butler of last night’s session in Flannigan’s, spelled out basically the same yarn as Mrs. Mac had over breakfast this morning. She leaned against a stone wall behind a camera clad family from Germany and glanced at her watch. Yadda-yadda! Fairies and little green men boinking the shit out of each other. She grinned wryly at the absence of that particular part of the story and had to bite her tongue at the mention that everyone should end the day with a hearty meal at Flannigan’s. Talk about networking. Get on with the kissing already. She watched as, one by one, each tourist lay down flat on their back on the edge of the precipice. Aided by Davy’s instructions, they grasped the iron railings for support and 37

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leaned back. A second later they were helped up to their feet and the rock sprayed with disinfectant and wiped clean for the next tourist. Which was her. “You’re next, miss.” Davy smiled and held out his hand. But even as she knelt to the floor, an uneasy feeling gathered in her chest. It was eerily similar to her early bouts of stage fright. She fought to take a deep breath, but found she couldn’t. Something made her look past Davy’s shoulder. A movement in the shadows behind him. A solitary figure with deep, almost shrunken eyes and ringed with wrinkles, a broad, pushed in nose and droopy lips merging into a disapproving frown. It was an ugly face. An angry face. And it suddenly moved into the light behind Davy. “Davy! Don’t let her…she mustn’t kiss the stone!” Startled, Davy whipped around. “Fergus! What are you doing up here? You’re to be after gate duty.” He swore then and bit out, “Who’s minding the gate? Dammit, man.” Davy got up and pushed past the little man, who continued to stare openly at Rhian. Finally, he held out a withered hand to her. “Help you up, then.” Rhian shrank away. She couldn’t think about touching him. There was something about him. Menacing, unfriendly. Some latent instinct warned her to get as far away from him as she could. But lying on the stone floor near the precipice, the man Davy called Fergus stood above her, blocking her way to the stairs. Rhian found herself caught between a rock and a hard case. 38

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“Isn’t she going to kiss the stone, Daddy?” One of the German children broke the tension. Rhian saw Fergus’s eyes narrow to become two black dots. It was clear he didn’t take well to that suggestion at all. He leaned closer to Rhian, and she could smell his fetid breath. “If you value this life, me fae, don’t be doin’ it.” Rhian lay there, speechless, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she could almost feel the floor beneath her vibrate. Then, a third party made its opinion known. Kiss me, my love. My sweet fae. Kiss me now and set me free. “Shut up!” barked Fergus, a little too loud. An unsettling murmur ran through the tiny crowd. Some began to back away from the scene and exit down the opposite stairwell. Wait no more, my Rhian. I cannot protect you from him if you don’t free my soul. “Stop it!” Fergus yelled, then grabbed her arm. He shook her roughly. “Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to trick you.” “Hold up, Fergus O’Roarke! It’s off to jail you’ll go.” A large hand grabbed the little man by the shoulder and yanked him away from Rhian. A uniformed constable all but picked up the shriveled gnome of a man. She watched Fergus struggle in his grasp and swear lightning. “Let me go, Jeffry O’Banyon.” “You’re right, Davy. I think he’s been sipping at the poteen today. And on a Friday! Shame on you, Fergus. Frightening the tourists. I’ll be sending Father Ryan to have a word with you.” 39

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Rhian breathed a sigh of relief as Fergus was dragged off. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “You really know how to put on a show here, Mr. Butler.” “It’s Davy, Miss Rhian. We met in the pub last night.” He extended his hand. “I’ll escort you down now and see you’re fee is refunded. I am sorry about all this.” “In a moment, Davy. I have a little unfinished business.” Determined now, Rhian reclined once again. She braced herself and placed both hands firmly on the iron bars. She tipped her head back while Davy kept a firm grip on her legs. “All this drama better be worth it. Here goes nothing.” She closed her eyes and pressed her mouth against the stone. And her world began to spin. The stone warmed against her lips. The hard surface melted away, only to be replaced by a soft fullness. Startled by the transformation, Rhian opened her eyes to find the face of her dream lover, his eyes heavylidded and softly caressing her. And a voice ringing in her ears. “Now we are together, as we were meant to be. Together at last. Forever.” Disoriented and dizzy, Rhian felt herself slipping out of Davy’s grasp. The iron bars felt slippery and loose against her fingers. She barely had time to squeak out a cry for help before she found herself being pulled back over the edge of the precipice and onto the steel platform grate. Several seconds passed before she could focus her gaze on the worried face of Davy and the anxious tourists peering over his shoulder. 40

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“Take a couple of deep breaths,” Davy advised. Rhian didn’t think a couple of breaths would help, but she took them anyway. “Sometimes it’s the blood rushing to the head,” Rhian heard someone say. “Maybe she’s afraid of heights.” “Too much breakfast. I’ll bet she’s going to throw up.” Rhian ignored the possible explanations and let Davy help her to her feet. There was no way in hell to explain to Davy or to anyone exactly what happened up there. Not that anyone would believe her anyway. She almost didn’t believe it herself, but the physicality of kissing that stone was no lie. The stone had kissed her back.

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CHAPTER 5 She ran! Fending off any attempt by Davy to help her, she fled to the exit, down the stairs, through the courtyard and out the main gate. She ran down the drive and to the main road at a furious pace. Once she reached the road she paused, her heart pounding against her breast, her lungs stinging as she gulped air. She leaned against a tree and bent over, afraid she might vomit. Dear God! What was happening to her? The last two days were like some wild, prolonged theme park attraction— Fairies and Leprechauns of Ireland: The Curse of the Emerald Isle. Cue Orlando. Enter Keira. Rhian walked back to Mrs. Mac’s. She slipped in and went 42

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to her room. Kat was locked in a dead-to-the-world snore. Rhian shed her jacket and shoes and lay down beside her. In seconds she was asleep. *

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Free! Free at last. Free to glory in the wind against his skin. To have the clean, Irish air fill his lungs. To feel the ground beneath his feet. To revel in the knowledge that he, Seamus O’Failan the last of the Cluricaun, had survived the curse of eternity locked in a stone. He danced a lop-sided jig on shaky legs. When he stumbled and landed on his ass—and what a feeling that was—he merely sat on the ground and laughed. He tipped back and lay in the grass, rocking back and forth as the green earth cradled him. Finally he sat up. He took stock of himself and frowned. Not exactly dressed for the era. A certain irony took hold. From what he knew of today’s Ireland, with its fine fetish for attracting visitors, he could pass as one of the castle’s character actors. And what he’d learned while locked away inside that stone! He’d had nothing but time on his hands. Time to watch the eras pass like rolling storm clouds. Time enough to observe the changing landscapes. He’d seen the Vikings come and go. Then the dreaded English and wayward Scots. The Spanish, too, had briefly touched the shores. He’d seen the high kings of Tara war over the right to rule. Then St. Patrick himself brought the country to reign, dispatching the druids and the fae once and for all as Irish folklore and fantasy. Yes 43

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indeed, Old Pat sat his arse on that very stone and rubbed his traveled feet. And farted. Imagine, being farted on by blessed St. Patrick! But the old saint must have known something, for before he resumed his travels, he stood up, apologized for the fart and patted the rock. “Have faith, my friend. Your soul will not be imprisoned forever. Good souls, like love, last an eternity. When the time is right, ye shall be free.” And so Seamus waited. And waited. Through the wars, the slaughter at Wexford by that Orange butcher. The power struggle and wresting of his country by England. And then came the famine. The land drenched in green tears and flowing rivers of blood. The Irish left by the thousands, tens of thousands until Seamus was sure he was the only Irish left on the blighted soil. The memories of the ancient ones faded away across the seas. The lilting tongue of familiar brogue became less and less and nearly disappeared. But not completely. Not to the faithful, hiding underground until the time of uprising. Brave men, stalwart souls all who fought to the death to restore the harp and the green. Slowly but surely, the children of Ireland returned to bring their gifts to the rest of the world. Now she shone like a bold emerald jewel, admired and coveted. But never more so than the love light shining in the eyes of his Darianna. Now he must go to her and fulfill his promise to become hers forever—for however long that may be. But first and foremost, he had a score to settle. He stood up, wavering slightly at the sudden movement. He was still 44

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weak. He’d have to slowly test his magic, which had become dormant from the long sleep. Out of habit, he slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. Empty! Of course, Fergus still had the coin. That was another strike against the little pismire. Betrayed and robbed. And what had become of the rest of the leprechaun race? Had they faded into myth, or had they survived under begrudging servitude? Free Seamus might be, but Fergus still held the power. And as long as Fergus O’Roarke walked the earth, both he and his Darianna faced certain peril. Seamus closed his eyes and turned into the autumn breeze. He flexed his cluricaun senses. The pungent scent of ancient peat bogs tickled his nostrils. He licked his lips and tasted the wind. Darianna was near. He cocked an ear to listen for her fae laugh. But it was another sound that worked to wake up his sleeping perception. The tapping of dainty feet. The rush of air fighting to avoid being crushed under the light steps of a fairy dance. It was coming from the village, and not too far from where he stood. Seamus tucked his plain linen shirt into his breeches, brushed dead grasses out of his hair and set off toward the sound. *

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“Did you go and lock lips?” “What?” Rhian tried not to look guilty as she shot a sharp glance at Kat. Just what she needed to take her already static concentration off the road. 45

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“With the rock.” Kat sat beside her, anticipating Rhian’s answer. Rhian swallowed and shrugged. “No big deal.” “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t— Whoa!” Rhian looked up in time to find herself drifting into the oncoming lane. At the last second, Kat leaned over and gave the wheel a lifesaving yank. “Left side, Rhian. They drive on the left over here. Did you forget, or do we need to die to make a point?” “Sorry. Not used to this whole opposite car, opposite road thing.” She flashed Kat an apologetic smile and willed herself to concentrate on driving the car and not what was driving at her. What she needed was an exhausting work out. Which was why the first thing she did after waking up this morning was call around and find a studio willing to let them practice. “Thanks for not waking me up last night, Kat.” “No problem. I only woke up once to pee, about supper time I guess. You were totally out of it, so I figured you needed your sleep.” “What did you do last night?” “I peed and came right back to bed. Understudies need their zzz’s too. Besides, if Paddy pint-size is the best this place has to offer, I’m wasting my time. I can wait until darling James graces us with his presence. Although, some Davy guy dropped by during breakfast this morning. He looked kind of promising.” “Oh?” Rhian tried not to show the alarm she felt skate up the back of her spine. 46

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“Yeah. He wanted to know if you were okay. Hey, you look a little piqued. Are you okay?” “Oh, um, sure.” Quickly Rhian formulated an excuse. “I just got a little dizzy walking up all those stairs. Not enough breakfast yesterday, I guess.” This topic of conversation was still too delicate to discuss. “Hey, what say we shop after practice?” Rhian couldn’t have chosen a better change of subject as Kat visually rallied to the idea. Rhian saw the studio’s sign, pulled in the driveway and parked. As instructed, she went to the back door and retrieved a key from under the door mat. Rustic. Since the Saturday morning classes were finished, she and Kat had the place to themselves. She turned on the lights and located their practice room. “Kat, check out the change rooms. See if we can use them for dress rehearsal next week. Then use the phone in the main office and call the Company for any messages, cast or scheduling changes. Oh, and find out if Moira needs to do any last minute fitting on my costume.” “Anything else, master? Get you a latte, pick up your dry cleaning? Cotton panties?” Rhian desperately wanted to wipe the sarcastic smile off Kat’s face. Instead, she handed her the office key. “Go! You can be such a bee-atch, sometimes.” She shook her head as Kat ducked out into the hallway and took her sniggering with her. Back to business. Rhian switched on the fluorescent lights. Better than she expected. The mirrors were clean, the floor waxed to a shine 47

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with only a few faded scuff marks. Several posters featuring competition dancers superimposed over Celtic lettering graced the walls. She located the CD player and a stack of dance music beside it. She loaded the player, choosing Chopin for a warm up, followed by a disc of basic jigs and reels for exercise. Finally she inserted her own performance music, recorded by the Boston Symphony only weeks before. Sixty minutes and a quart of serious perspiration later, she was ready to practice her routine. “Water?” “Thanks, Kat.” She took a huge gulp and wiped her damp brow with a small, white towel. “How’d I look?” “Not bad. You need to extend higher on your kicks and it sounds like one of your taps is loose.” Rhian arched her back for an elongated stretch. “That’s what I thought. I’ll ask Mrs. Buchanan who fits her pupils. I want to get in a few more workouts, but not on a loose tap. I’m going to take a time out before my routine. Do you want the floor?” Kat nodded and Rhian sat down on a mat to stretch and change shoes, shucking the taps for a pair of leather split-sole practice gillies. She laced them up and lay back on the mat. She closed her eyes and listened to the music. They were standard time jigs, practiced for the sole purpose of developing rhythm and balance. A closed eye also meant a keener ear with which to catch an off-step. For an understudy, Kat had done well. She was light on her feet, learned quickly and offered her own creative variations for competition 48

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routines and public performances. Rhian hoped Kat would take her place when retirement called. Soon enough Rhian felt the hard toe of a shoe nudging her hip. She forced one eye open to find Kat standing above her with her arms folded over her flat chest. “Some critic you are, falling asleep on the job. I’m going for a smoke. And maybe check out that little shop next door.” Every dancer had their jones. For Rhian it was pasta. Plates and plates of the stuff, smothered in creamy alfredo sauce and served with huge chunks of buttered garlic bread. Ahh…someday… “Do what you have to, girlfriend.” And she closed her eyes once more and listened to the cadence of taps echoing across the floor and fading down the hallway. Rhian decided to extend her break by another mouthful of water and half an energy bar. But first she needed to drag herself up off the mat. It was at the end of her decision making that her senses suddenly quickened. The studio lights seemed to dim. Her damp skin prickled. She was not alone. Her stomach fluttered. Kat was just outside. All she needed to do was scream. Her eyes shot open. But she couldn’t scream. Not at the figure hovering over her. Not when her captured gaze froze on two pools of shiny black. And certainly not at the sensual lips which slowly curled into a soft, welcoming smile. And not at the rough, lilting timbre of the voice which enticed her… “Dance with me.” 49

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CHAPTER 6 “Who—” “No questions. Not now. Not yet. Just dance with me.” Rhian took his hand and marveled at the strength with which he helped her to her feet. Hands, large yet gentle. There was kindness and worship in his face. He was bare chested with the lean, sinewy build of an athlete. Long legs encased in thin, leather stage breeches buckled at the knee over black cotton stockings. And on his feet, the most gorgeous pair of hard shoes she’d ever seen. Professional. Obviously custommade. His light step confirmed his intentions. He moved with the grace and poise of a dancer. He had dimmed the studio lights. Even the mirrors seemed 51

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dark. He led her to the middle of the floor. Years of lifestyle and training kicked in. Automatically her body readied itself. Straight back, high head, pointed toes. Her partner raised one arm in an arch, the other he clasped firmly around her waist. From somewhere above her came the cry of a lone uilleann. Then the thin melody of a low whistle. Finally, a bodhran joined to lend a beat. Rhian didn’t know what step he’d planned, but it didn’t matter. It was as if they’d been dancing together all her life. All she need do was look in his eyes and she knew by instinct when to turn, when to break, when to skip and when to jump. His gaze never left her. He followed her every move the way no seasoned partner ever had despite the countless hours of practice and preparation she suffered with every Il Divo in Irish dance. And this one came without the attitude. Bonus. Had it been a premonition? Fate? Or just plain, old Irish luck? But this was far from luck! Rhian sensed an end to the music and readied herself for a final flair. She executed a leap, only to be caught in mid-air. Her partner spun her around. And around. And around. She caught a glimpse of them in the mirror, whirling like a dervish. A dizzying spin so fast that she wasn’t even sure his feet were touching the ground. Then he stopped suddenly, still holding her in his arms high above the floor. The only thing she could think of to do was end the piece with a seductive body slide, so she let herself go seemingly limp and pressed herself against him—against every inch of him until she found herself flat on her back on the floor between his legs. 52

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She stared openly at his package. The outline bulged tightly against his tan breeches. No athletic cup to hide the lucky charms! Nor was he the least bit fazed at her openly admiring his crotch. And then he was on top of her. She didn’t question his motives. This was exactly where she wanted him to be. This graceful animal, tender yet skilled in the art of both fanning and fuelling the wild Irish fire in her soul. She lay under him, panting, muscles trembling from their effort. Her blond hair had long since made shed of its classic bun, fanning out in a wavy halo of gold. The man above her hadn’t even broken a sweat! It was the last cohesive thought that crossed her mind before her hormones took over. “I…I want…I need you to kiss me. I don’t know why. I only know it’s the right thing to do. I don’t even know your name.” Even in her breathless admission, the details didn’t seem to matter. “Yes, you do. You know me. Your soul knows mine. You found me and set me free, my Rhian. Say my name.” “I…my dream…the castle…” His hands clasped her shoulders. “You know. Deep inside. Look to your heart.” “You’re…Seamus? Seamus!” His face brightened instantly. “Yes! It’s me.” He pressed her body against his. “At last, my sweet fae, we are together.” And then he kissed her. And with that kiss a sleeping memory awakened inside her. A memory of fondling hands, of lips caressing her to an ancient need so hungry and so 53

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powerful that it erupted deep inside her and forced its way to the surface. In that moment, she ceased to be ordinary Rhiannan MacNamara of Boston. She was Darianna, Divine Princess of the Fae. Lover of Seamus of the Cluricaun. And lover she became. “Seamus. Make love to me. I need to feel your body next to me.” “Aye, that and more. I’ll make you remember. But I’ve a feeling you’ve not forgotten.” Forget? How could any woman, mortal or fae, forget the passion this man incited. She tried to get up. “Now where are you off to?” Seeing the confusion in his eyes, she pointed to the mat. “The floor’s a little cold for what we both have in mind.” His face softened with understanding. “Of course. My lady requires a proper bed. But I think we can do better than this.” He rose to his feet in one swift motion. “I think it’s time I shook the dust off this cluricaun magic. I know the rest of me is in well working order.” He winked at her. Rhian took his outstretched hand. Immediately he pressed her close. She felt safe and secure in his embrace. She lay her head on his bare shoulder. Strange, he smelled just as she thought he would. Just as she remembered. But what did she remember? Her senses, her body, her psyche were drawn to him like a magnet. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh rain, green trees, a potent mix of wild herbs and exotic spices. A heady concoction designed to lure and enchant the most timid 54

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of maids. He’d cast a spell on her. He must have. When she opened her eyes, she no longer saw the four walls of the dance studio. A canopy of brown bark replaced the class roof. Her curtains were crowned with leaves. The floor was soft and green. In the middle of this tiny, private nook sat a raised bed of rose petals. In the background came the music of seduction, the trickle of a nearby stream, the breeze whispered above, a songbird entertained. “This can’t be real,” she whispered. Staring in disbelief, she clung to Seamus. Her gaze darted from one amazing site to the next. As if this wasn’t enough, Seamus had but to raise his hand and the their love nest became alight with dozens of candles. “It’s perfect,” she gasped. “Almost.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed each finger until he reached her thumb, then took it in his mouth and gently suckled it. Rhian swayed and would have fallen if she hadn’t been leaning against him. Her heart accelerated to a gallop. It was simply the most exquisite pleasure she’d ever felt and he’d barely begun. Her spine tingled. Her blood heated and rushed to fill her erogenous zones. Her nipples sprouted hard tips which poked against her…she opened her eyes and look down. She was no longer wearing her leotards and tights. In fact, she wasn’t wearing much of anything! A sheer shift of silver gossamer was all that covered her from her shoulders to her thighs. There was no hiding her body’s reaction from anyone. The sheer material rubbed against her nipples. Her breasts 55

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stood out like two ripe apples, ready and waiting to be plucked. Or rubbed. Or sucked. Seamus led her to the bed and she followed without protest. Then he scooped her up in his arms and set her gently down on a velvety sea of reds and pinks. The petals caressed her skin. The heat from her own skin released their perfume, which blended with their pheromones and enveloped them both in a heady cocoon. It was a sensual drug, induced by the needs of their bodies, fed by their passion, and could only be satisfied by their coupling. She didn’t know when their clothes disappeared. They seemed to melt off as soon as they touched the bed. Her skin now free to enjoy and consume the pleasure of the man above her. Rhian locked her legs around his hips. Her body craved his nearness. His touch. The feel of his body against her. Even his breath on her skin. All were new, yet familiar. It was a place she knew she belonged, a longing filled, a yearning satisfied. And the best was yet to come. She kneaded his back with her fingers, gently scraped his skin with her nails, lapped his neck and chin like a hungry cat. The absurdity of the situation passed fleetingly—that she could react with such sexual ferocity to a man she had never met. But her heart knew him. Her physical body certainly craved him. And something else, something she couldn’t readily identify, something far more primitive. She belonged here. She knew that much. She felt alive here. It was the same lightness and excitement that filled her when she danced. When she donned her shoes, her feet always 56

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knew exactly what to do. And now, with this man splendid and naked above her, there were no motives to question, only a deep desire needing to be filled. “Ah, my sweet Rhian. ’Tis been so long, too long. To touch your skin again, to feel your lithe, warm body against mine. Surely it was worth an eternity of waiting.” She covered his lips with her fingers. “Hush now, my love. We are together now. Show me how much you’ve missed me. I must feel you inside me again, to truly know that you are here and this is not just another wonderful dream.” “Is this a dream?” She felt him slide one hand over her backside and give her a hard squeeze. “Or this?” He reached between them and rubbed his erect cock against her swollen sex. She flinched and strained against him. The sensation was exquisite, a firestorm of need surged through her. Her inner muscles clenched hard, a hunger aching to latch on and greedily suckle the hard source of satisfaction. “Wait no more,” she whispered. His soft chuckle frustrated her. “Surely you will devour me.” She nipped his chin. “And you would choose another fate?” “Surely not.” And with that he plunged into her. A stuttering sigh signaled his pleasure. Rhian savored the hard, hot length inside her. He moved fast, exciting her quickly. They labored 57

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slowly, so she could experience and rekindle the long-absent pleasure that had been theirs. He withdrew and entered slowly. The smooth, wide tip of his cock parted her flesh. He slid in, tentative and teasing, allowing her to feel the uneven ridge on the underside of his shaft. Deeper and deeper he probed until she felt the mild sting of her cervix denying any further access. She hoisted her legs higher, determined to let him fill her. Suddenly his hands cradled her ass, squeezed the tender cheeks and with one smooth, quick roll, she was on top of him. She smiled in delight as Seamus groaned beneath her. He reached up and cupped both her breasts. “That’s a much better view. Your milky skin soft as silk and your hair bouncing off your shoulders like moonbeams off the evening mist.” Rhian sighed and wriggled her bottom against his groin. “I prefer this kind of bouncing.” She yelped as he thrust up deep inside her. Sensing his imminent release, she let her fingers graze the cleft of her vulva where her pulsing clit crested through her sensitive outer lips. Her lover brushed her hand away. “Nay, let me. Such a ripe, wet little fruit begs me to test its firmness.” And with one hand firmly fondling her breast, he busied the other at kneading her clit until she was sure she would die if he didn’t allow her to come. And just when she thought she might beg him to bring the joyous torture to an end, she felt the forceful rush of fire deep inside her belly. She bucked wildly against his hips, sending 58

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rose petals flying in a furious pink rain. With a high pitched wail, she let him know he’d brought her pleasure to its conclusion. Except it wasn’t. With one quick roll, he was atop her and slamming into her sated flesh. The initial fire still smoldered in her battered channel and the friction from his cock ignited a fresh flash of heat. He seemed to sense this and finally allowed himself to join in her pleasure. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he bit—a little too hard—on one of her nipples. But she hardly felt the pain as spasms of pleasure rocked her body. The man in her arms convulsed over her. Inside, hot cum bathed her tender flesh. For several minutes they lay locked together, breathing in the scent of crushed petals and the nectar of their own bodies. For Rhian, it was as if time had stood still and they had never left this place. She knew it now. The familiar scents of this place, the feel of the soft grass and willow branches. The soft trickle of the nearby stream lulling them into drowsy repose. Tir na nOg! She was home. Her shoulders tingled. Nascent wings, light as air fanned out on the bed beneath her. But no sooner had she accepted this dream for reality than a black cloud drifted across the horizon, effectively shutting out the sun. Their little nook was plunged into darkness. The ages fanned by her like pages in a book. The next time she opened her eyes, she saw the stark, fluorescent light above her on the ceiling of the dance studio. She was lying on the mat wearing 59

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her tights. Seamus sat beside her, cross-legged and holding her hand. She blinked a couple of times. “Wha…what just happened?” But she didn’t really need—or want—an answer. The man beside her smiled tenderly. It was a lover’s smile. Her own body told her the rest of the story. Fact and fantasy clashed within her. Myth and mind came to a bridge they had to cross together. She squeezed his hand and Seamus snuggled down beside her. She gazed into his eyes and studied his face for a moment. “Did we just…” His raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing grin. “Oh…shit! We did.” But she didn’t protest when he dropped a kiss on her questioning mouth. “Rhian…Oh, my sweet, loving fae. Suppose I start from the beginning…” *

*

*

Fergus walked out of the local police office with Paddy in tow. Once out of public view, Fergus gave his son a hard swat. “Oi! You knocked me hat off.” Paddy stooped to pick up his red, felt hat. He stopped and inspected the damage. Fergus gave him a miserable scowl. “You’ve no right to wear that hat, you damned half-breed bastard.” “And the feather’s bent now.” Paddy picked at the drooping feather and pouted. “I’ll need a new one. Pocket up, old man.” Fergus slapped away Paddy’s outreached hand. “You’ll get 60

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it when you’ve earned it. You were supposed to keep the girl away from the castle. Now look what’s happened. I’ve no job and that focking shite of a cluricaun is loose. For half the time the world’s seen the sun I’ve watched and waited and guarded that stone. Because someday, I knew she’d be back. I just didn’t think it would take this long.” Paddy shrugged and continued to dust off his hat. “So I screwed the wrong one.” A lewd grin crossed his face. “I still say it was worth it.” But Fergus didn’t have anything to smile about. He was an out-of-work leprechaun. With nothing to guard, no crock of gold, and no gainful employment, he was now an outcast amongst his own kind, as few in number as they were. Rare they were now, the old guard. Living under hedgerows and in hollowed-out tree trunks, serene with smoking their pipes and playing their fiddles. Venturing out for the odd bit of trickery to amuse themselves. A fresh cat and a barrel or two of whiskey and they were content as they had been when Finn MacCumhail and the men of the Fianna feasted at Tara. They shunned Fergus who chose to live among the mortals with their modern conveniences and soft living. And worse, for fornicating with one and producing the likes of Paddy. “If it vexes you so, Father, then simply take a dagger and cut off his head. That is how you kill a cluricaun, isn’t it?” Fergus stopped in his tracks and turned to his son. “I’ll be focked! You have been paying attention, boy. But we have to be crafty.” He rubbed the white stubble on his chin with a withered hand. “Aye. Who knows how strong his magic may 61

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be. The longer he’s free, the stronger he’ll become. We’ll have to be quick about it while he’s still weak.” Indeed. Even Una knew she could not have destroyed him. If it were that simple, then she would have done it and they’d not be in this fix. But then, killing Seamus would only have turned Darianna’s warm heart to cold hatred for them all. If the fair-haired wench really carried the soul of the longdeparted Darianna, then perhaps there was still a chance to undo an ancient wrong. He thought long and hard, but one woeful glance at Paddy made any chance of a union unthinkable. That a fae princess would take a shiftless halfbreed leprechaun was as inconsiderable as passing the chapel and hearing the statue of St. Patrick fart! Still, perhaps he could convince the fae to give up her passion for Seamus. Ah, but what a fine bit of trickery that would be. “Father!” Fergus responded with a grunt. “I said I’m off to the pub. Are ye with me?” Fergus shook his head and waved his son on his way. As Paddy passed into the shadow of the castle on his way to Flannigan’s, a germ of an idea wormed its way into Fergus’s thoughts. Something in what Paddy had said. Words that might be worthwhile after all. The idea spread like black plague spots on prawtees. He cast a hopeful glance up at the castle turrets, at the cold, hard walls over which he’d had domain for so long. His watch wasn’t finished yet. He slipped his hand into his left pants pocket. His fingers wrapped around a single smooth coin. Still there. Still waiting. He knew of 62

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kindred folk in Dublin, a swordsman and a master at his craft. First thing in the morning—no—he shook his head. Tomorrow was Sunday and Father Ryan would expect to see them all in church. Monday morning. He could wait until Monday to send Paddy on his errand. He reached into his jacket and retrieved his pipe. After teasing out a billow of smoke, he resumed his walk home decidedly in a much better mood. By this time next week, the last of the cluricaun would be dispatched to hell and his hands would be locked around the arse of that treacherous little fae. Then, by all the saints, he’d teach her a lesson she’d soon not forget!

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CHAPTER 7 Rhian paced the studio floor at a worried rate. Her pale, pink chiffon skirt flared out behind her as she turned. “I want to believe you, Seamus, I really do. Part of me knows everything you’ve told me is true. I feel it, in here.” She balled her fists and rested them on her stomach. She felt it all over, but then she didn’t need to tell him that. “And the dream. Do I need to tell you about the dream? I was there, with you. I can relate every detail, right down to the wet stain and how you lied to your friend.” Now he did have her. No one knew about that. She hadn’t told Kat, the only person she would have turned to with such an intimate detail. 64

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“Look to your heart, Rhian. And if you still don’t understand, then look to the past. Look as far back as you can remember, a wee gossoom in a far away land with only your granny to guide you. Remember your days spent at pursuing the art of the fae dance, the nights at Granny’s knee learning the lore and hearing the stories of the mother land of her birth. And of Tir na nOg .” “What’s my granny got to do with this, and how do you now about her anyway?” “All in good time.” Hardly a comforting answer. “Okay, suppose I do believe you. Now what?” “I don’t know.” Rhian marched over to where Seamus sat. Arms akimbo, she glared down at him. “You mean to say that you spent an eternity locked in a stone, thinking about being free every second of every day and you don’t have a plan? What am I supposed to do with you?” “We marry, of course.” She stared at him open mouthed. “What?” Seamus got to his feet and embraced her. “We marry. I’m the last of the cluricaun and you’re a fae princess—” “Hold it right there, mister. I might believe you are what you say you are, but I’m a different matter. My job is a dancing as a fairy princess. I think you might be a little confused.” Which wasn’t the most convincing speech she’d ever given. Having his arms around her made believing him easier than facing reality. But reality had to prevail. There was 65

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too much resting on her shoulders right now. With that reminder she stumbled on a stop-gap solution, something to keep Seamus occupied while she dealt with her responsibilities. “If you need a job as a dance teacher, I’m sure I can talk to Mrs. Buchanan.” A sudden frown sobered his expression. “No. that won’t be necessary. I know Beulah quite well.” She blinked at him. “Of course you do.” She nodded at the realization. “You know everyone. You’ve watched them come and go, live and die. After all, you’ve had a great view of this village.” He seemed to look past her for a moment. “Yes,” he began softly, “I’ve seen quite a lot.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “I have responsibilities, too. Even one such as I has a path to follow.” Rhian stepped back and tried to understand his sudden change. Did cluricauns have mood swings? Was there such a thing as post-coital depression? And if so, wasn’t that her department? Yes, it was. And judging by the turn their conversation had taken, Seamus was getting ready to do what came naturally. Rhian decided to take matters into her own hands. This was one dance divo who wasn’t going to brag about his bang-and-bounce. “Good idea. See that door over there? That will take you to your…path or yellow brick road or whatever you have to follow. I have a show to put on. Nice audition, by the way.” She pushed past him to the corner where her gear still lay 66

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scattered. She removed her toe walkers and began to massage her feet. “If there are any more like you in your class, send them over. There’s another practice tomorrow after—” “Who are you talking to?” Rhian paused and glanced into the mirror. She saw only Kat’s reflection. Her friend wore a quizzical look of concern. Quickly Rhian scanned the room. They were alone. Perhaps she always had been. She grinned sheepishly. “I was talking to…my feet.” She pointed to her big toe. “Blister. You’re bad!” “Uh huh. I was going to suggest we shop, but I think you need a shower and some sleep. And maybe some carbs. They say lack of carbs rots your brain.” Rhian wrung her hands and flexed her fingers. It was a familiar cool down exercise. Familiar was reassuring. Safe. Normal. “Yeah, that works.” She locked up the studio while Kat stowed their workout gear in the tiny space behind the driver’s seat. She drove them back to Mrs. Mac’s. If Kat noticed her lack of conversation, she didn’t say anything. Rhian was grateful. She needed the space to think. She let Kat off at Mrs. Mac’s front door and parked the car. It was all getting to her—the touristy tales, the history, and the nostalgia of Granny’s stories. While coming here and performing had always been her life’s ambition, it would be a giant relief to finally get out of here and back to civilization. Back to Boston. Regular classes, traffic, and trying to keep warm in the winter when the heating system 67

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broke down. She’d had enough of Blarney and wee people. The only pot of gold she wanted to see was a first-class seat on a flight out of here. She entered the house and her nose picked up the savory scent of a meat pie. Kat was busy in the kitchen modeling an Aran sweater she’d bought and flirting with Arthur, who sat at the large oak table peeling potatoes. As soon as she opened the bedroom door her mouth dropped open. On the bed, sat the most gorgeous pair of ballet pointe shoes she’d ever seen. She didn’t hesitate to examine them. Pale pink with long, silky ribbons. She ran her fingers over the soles. The leather was soft and stiff. The toes satiny smooth and molded to a point. The craftsmanship was excellence itself. She couldn’t even see a seam. She pressed a silk ribbon to her face. The scent of crushed rose petals embraced her. There was a note attached to the ribbon. On cream-colored parchment paper was a single word written in black ink. Believe.

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CHAPTER 8 It was a short admiration. She heard the broken ring of a telephone, Mrs. Mac’s voice, then Kat. Quickly Rhian wrapped the shoes in a piece of cloth and placed them in her shoe bag. She knew without a doubt who they were from. The right thing to do was find Seamus and return them. The right thing to do fled with the sound of Kat’s footsteps and her frantic call of, “Rhian! It’s Danny McCulloch. I think you better talk to him.” Normally a summons from the Company’s director wouldn’t cause a panic. Something must be up. She took the call and had to suffer Kat anxiously pacing 69

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behind her. When she finally hung up, Kat pounced on her. “Is it bad news or really bad news?” She looked at Kat and swallowed. “It’s devastating. Jimmy shattered his ankle.” “Peckerhead! How the hell… Oh, does it really matter?” “Playing pub crawl host to some out of town friends who wanted to see the real Cheers bar.” Typical. She could just envision Jimmy stumbling half-drunk down a worn set of cement stairs to show off a cheesy, little dive which served overpriced, watered down beer, and cheap souvenirs. “What should we do?” “Nothing, for the moment. Moira and Danny are doing damage control. The real decision is, do I dance alone with some local talent as back up or go with Jimmy’s second?” Going with an understudy meant setting the show back several weeks. PBS didn’t have that large a window. It would be a logistical and financial nightmare. It looked like she would be going home after all. The sooner the better. She looked up to find Mrs. Mac and Arthur staring at them from the hallway. It was more than anxiety on their faces. It was more like grief. Of course they would take an interest in what happened. They, along with the rest of the local residents. No benefit performance, no money. No money, no castle refurbishment. The continued disrepair would cause the government to close the attraction until they could afford to fund the project. The loss of the economy would devastate the community. “Of course, we could always pray for a miracle that some 70

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local, fast-learning dance prodigy appears. You know, like in Dirty Dancing. I—what? Why are you smiling? ’Cause if there’s a punch line to all this, then I need to find out where I laugh. I…Rhian. Rhian! Where are you going?” Rhian stopped in her tracks. Her mind whirled with possibilities. Could it be done? Of course it could. She already knew the story. She’d danced it. It had a beginning and a middle. All it needed was an end. She had the right partner. All she had to do was find him. “Get on the phone. Tell everyone to get their asses over here ASAP. The show is going on as scheduled.” “What?” “And tell Moira I need a queen’s costume with wings. Something in blue and gold in your size. She can sew on the plane.” She ignored Kat’s confused expression and attempts at trying to understand what was going on. “Yeah, okay, but…but…a queen. Like a good, beautiful queen? Or an evil queen?” “Evil beautiful,” she yelled as she ran down the hall, leaving Kat to mutter helplessly. “Hey, what’s my motivation? Do I send you into the woods? Talk to a mirror? Poison your apples? Rhian…Rhiannan…” *

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For the next two hours, Rhian frantically burned the phone lines between Blarney and Boston. She hurriedly sketched out 71

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dancer’s roles in point form and fleshed out the storyline. “Basically, it’s The Nutracker Meets Sleeping Beauty and we can use the existing sets, lighting, costumes, and most of the routines.” “But what about the lead? As director of the BCDC, I have final approval of all roles, Rhian. You can’t just call me up and say you’ve found a replacement and that’s that. The union rules state we have to hold open auditions if the understudy can’t play the role. And there’s no way Craig Murdoch can learn a new role under the current timeframe. Christ! Craig looks like an Italian tenor on a pasta binge. We’ll just have to cancel and eat our losses.” Rhian tried desperately to convince the director and not to chew her nails in the process. “So tell the union we held auditions here and found someone. They won’t know until after it’s all over. Listen to me, Danny,” she was reduced to pleading now. “We can’t cancel now. Not after all the advertising we’ve done. We may never get another chance for the kind of exposure PBS will give us.” Now was the time for the denouement, to hit Danny McCullough where she knew it would hurt. “Think of the grant and the PBS financing. We’ll sell a hell of a lot of DVDs. You can shoot the BCDC to the forefront of IrishAmerican dance culture,” she finished and crossed her fingers. “What about Craig?” Rhian was prepared for a last impotent argument. “I have a perfect role for a short, pudgy dancer. Have I ever told you how much I thought Craig resembled a leprechaun…” 72

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*

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“And he went for it?” Rhian leaned back in one of Mrs. Mac’s scarred oak kitchen chairs. “There’s nothing like hitting Danny where he lives; with an inflated ego and an empty wallet.” Satisfied with her accomplishments, Rhian helped herself to one rounded teaspoon of forbidden sugar and stirred it into her black tea. She eyed the plateful of rich, buttery scones on the table and decided the world wouldn’t come to an end if she had one. She watched as Kat wolfed down two of them, but said nothing. Even Kat needed a break. “This has just come for you, Rhian.” Mrs. Mac handed her an envelope. “Davy dropped it by on his way home from the castle.” She took the envelope with thanks. It was the same black ink and scrawling hand as the note with her gift. She set it down on the table and picked up her mug of tea. “Well?” She looked up and saw Mrs. Mac standing over her. The woman had a damp dish towel slung over her shoulder. Her arms were folded across her chest, supporting her sagging breasts. She tapped her slippered foot impatiently. “Aren’t you goin’ t’ read it?” If there was one thing Rhian knew from growing up Irish, it was that in large families and small towns there was no such thing as privacy. Rhian heaved a sigh and picked up the envelope. She opened the envelope, took out a single piece of folded paper 73

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and read it. It was an unfamiliar hand. She refolded the paper and slipped it back in the envelope. She smiled up at Mrs. Mac and gave the woman a single nod. “Done.” “Well, what is it?” This time the question came from Kat. Rhian rolled her eyes. “Not you, too. I’m going for a walk.” She pushed the chair away from the table, pocketed her envelope and went to change. Alone now, she allowed herself a little emotion. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Her hands trembled as she slid into flesh-colored tights topped off with a pink tunic sweater and silver scarf. She brushed out her hair and patted on some lip gloss. She struggled into high heel leather boots, picked up her purse and at the last minute grabbed her practice taps and stuffed them inside. She’d stop at the dance school and drop them off for repair. She left Mrs. Mac’s, waving good-bye to her host and Kat while ignoring their rapid-fire questions and pleas for information. She reached into her purse for the car keys, but decided that walking would be faster than wrestling the stick shift for reverse. She struck out for the castle on foot. *

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The Buchanan school closed early on Monday nights, as evidenced by the darkened interior and by the sign on the door listing the operating hours. And, according to her feet, it wasn’t the first time that evening she hadn’t done her homework. Her high heel boots were drop dead sexy, but were 74

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clearly meant for someone who didn’t dance for a living. In short, they were killing her. She looked at the castle turrets in the distance. The last thing she needed now were more blisters. She made a practical decision. She sat down on the cement step, shed the boots, and put on her taps. Not exactly a fashionista statement, but comfort had to reign. She stuffed the boots inside her purse and continued on. It was after hours she knew, but Seamus’s note gave her instructions on how to enter through the layman’s gate, an entrance left over from when the castle actually functioned as a castle. She followed the dark passage up through a set of back stairs. She didn’t think to bring a flashlight, but there was a ramshackle railing which functioned and kept her from stumbling in the darkness. Finally she saw the faint glow of a security light over a steel door. She pressed the latch and the door swung open. Through the dim light she recognized the interior of the stone room. A lone figure stood looking out the window on the opposite side of the room. From where she was and even in the absence of light she could tell the person was not Seamus. The figure turned. “Paddy? Paddy O’Roarke?” “Aye!” The headiness of sexual anticipation turned to a stone of disappointment. The warm tingling between her thighs became a sudden cold plunge in her stomach. It was suddenly clear to her instinct that she knew she shouldn’t have come 75

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here—alone. Rhian drew closer, then wished she hadn’t. The smell of stale ale polluted his breath. Stagnant smoke reeked from his clothes. It occurred to her suddenly that the note she supposed was from Seamus actually came from Paddy and had been meant for Kat. “I’m sorry, Paddy. I picked up the message, not Kat. I can give you her cell number or you can call Mrs. Mac.” “That won’t be necessary.” The voice came from behind her. Before she could act, an iron grip imprisoned her arms. Adrenaline rushed through her. She struggled with her captor and screamed at Paddy for help. He did come to her side, but only to slap a width of builder’s tape across her mouth. “You, boy. Help me with her.” It was Fergus. Bloody strong for a little guy, but then she remembered. Fergus was no ordinary old man. If he did indeed possess his ancestor’s soul, then his leprechaun magic could match Seamus’s. Possibly more. Too late, Granny’s warning came back to haunt her: Never turn your back on a leprechaun. They’re tricksters and they’ll do you a hurt if you run a-foul of them! Together, her captors dragged her over to the precipice above the stone and tied her hands to one of the iron bars. Thankfully, they hadn’t touched her feet. Even as a prisoner, she was conscious of her most precious commodity. Fergus stood beside her. Her fae spirit picked up the stench of evil. He meant to do her harm. Maybe not this minute, but 76

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she could read it in his face. His eyes raked her. A lewd, malicious grin split his menacing, wrinkled mouth. That kind of harm was unthinkable. She’d rather leap from the highest turret of castle than submit to him. As it was, she had to suffer his running his fingers through her tangled hair. He wrapped a length around his hand and yanked hard. Rhian screamed behind her gag. Tears of pain welled up in her eyes. “What’s wrong, little fae? Be they tears of happiness I see? We’ve both waited a long, long time for this union.” He licked his thick, lined lips. Rhian didn’t stop to think of the consequences when she used the only weapon she had available. She lined up Fergus’s crotch with her left foot and let loose. The leprechaun bawled and doubled over. A moment later he recovered and came at her with rage in his face and an open hand. Rhian cringed and shrank away from him. “Father!” Fergus lowered his arm and turned his attention away from her. “He is coming.” Seamus! She realized now what was happening. This was a trap and she was the bait. Terror seized her as Paddy opened his jacket and produced a large, silver dagger. She had to warn Seamus. Somehow. But how? She couldn’t scream or call out. She strained at the ropes, but they held too tight. She kicked uselessly at the wall. So much for being fae! She frantically searched for a way out. There had to be a way. They hadn’t waited all this time to find each other only to be parted again. 77

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She tried to cast her mind back to the ancient time, to think clearly of an era when a fae princess danced above the clouds and made angels weep. Only now, fear clouded that image. Her mind raced forward instead of back, to a gruesome scene where a vengeful creature struck her love’s head from his body. No! She couldn’t let it happen. Not even if she had to sacrifice her soul yet again. The sound of footsteps drawing ever nearer to her prison rang in her ears. She tugged and yanked at her bonds. She felt the wrenching pain of her wrists as blood ran down her arms. She heard something else, too. The echo of taps against the stone floor. I know the story. I’ve danced it. And in that instant, her feet became her messenger. If two souls could find each other over the ages, then the ancient dances could become her words. She closed her eyes and pictured herself back under the willow boughs, a flirting, fairy miss, dancing for an audience of one. Could Seamus hear her warning? More important, would he heed it? Or was this her final performance and a swan song for both of them?

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CHAPTER 9 He heard her calling. A desperate call full of fear and fright. He’d been sitting at Mrs. Mac’s table where the talk had been naught else but the strange message Rhian received and her sudden departure. He easily persuaded Kathleen Callaghan to accompany Davy Butler to Flannigan’s. She’d be safe there, among her own kind. Seamus smiled his thanks as Mrs. Mac served him a mug of honey wine. “That message was not from me. Fergus must have sent it. I was sure he’d come after me, Mary.” Mrs. Mac wrung her hands and fretted. “And here I let her go, when it was my job to look out for her.” 79

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Seamus covered her hands with one of his own. “Now, now. Fergus might be a traitor, a thief, and a coward, but I don’t think he’ll hurt her.” It was no reassurance as the old woman began a fresh rain of tears. “Then I think it’s time you gathered the clan, Mary.” Mrs. Mac dabbed her eyes with a tea stained apron. “What are ye going to do, Seamus? They’ll be at the castle, waiting for you.” Seamus took a bracing gulp. “What else can I do, Mary? I have to go after her.” “But it’s a trap!” Seamus stared into his now empty mug, as if the answers were written on the bottom. “I know it. I think I knew it then, too.” “Can ye do it? Can ye best him?” “That piece of shite! Of course I can.” Mary laid her hand on his arm. “Can you be sure she’ll be safe?” Seamus grimaced at the thought. He didn’t want to alarm Mary. Fergus had been a whoreson since his first breath. He’d used Rhian once already and it brought them all to a bad end. It was worth not underestimating him now. He gave a curt nod. “I’ll see to it.” “But your magic! Sure but it’s been such a long, long time.” “I’ve enough to do what I have to do and”—he rose and headed for the door—“I’ll have some help.” 80

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“Be careful, Seamus. For her sake.” He bent and planted a kiss on Mary Mac’s wrinkled brow. “I will, for all our sakes.” *

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“Stop that!” Rhian’s knees buckled as pain seared the backs of her legs. “Try that again and I’ll whip you raw!” Rhian tried not to let tears sting her eyes as she glared at her captor. He grasped a long, wet willow stalk in his fist. He narrowed his evil, little eyes. They were filled with spite and hatred. He lunged forward and ripped the tape off her mouth. “Oi! Why’d you do that, Father? She all but bit me hand off.” Rhian licked her stinging lips. “You’re a thief and a traitor to your kind, Fergus.” “Ah. So you do remember. And do you remember you broke your mother’s heart?” “No! You both did that when she sent you to spy on me. Or should I say, you bribed her. She saw through you and your lies. And she knew I’d scatter my own soul to the four winds before I’d take you. I followed my true heart. You don’t even have one!” He raised his hand to strike her again, when Paddy stayed him. “Save it for the cluricaun, Father.” Rhian shot a venomous glance at Paddy. She’d gladly deal with him, too, if she got a chance. If she had a chance at all. She knew Seamus was coming for her. She’d felt it. Rescuing 81

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her would be his death. She couldn’t bear that. She’d rather Fergus cut off both her feet than be the cause of his demise. What she also couldn’t stop was Paddy who slipped in between her and Fergus. He leaned in and wriggled his squat nose. His nostrils flared. “Aye, he’s plugged her already.” He reached up and gave one of her breasts a painful squeeze. She couldn’t avoid the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Ah, but she’s still worth a bit of fun, eh, Da?” Fergus wrenched Paddy’s arm off her and all but threw his son to the floor. It was probably the only good thing he was capable of. Or was it? This time he slithered up to Rhian until she was forced to turn her face away from his stench. Her stomach rolled and she gagged. “Maybe. Just maybe we’ll have a little fun with both of them. T’would be a grand send off if we make him watch while I toss her jib over her ears and fock her meself. Then we’ll strike his head from the rest of him.” Paddy collected himself and grinned lasciviously. “Oi, we’ll park ’is head on the sill and he can watch while we each takes a turn.” They were both laughing now. That fast, high-pitch bleat that sounded so unnatural, so unearthly. Granny’s warning rang in her ears. If ye hear the sound of a ewe bawling where no sheep graze, then run, Little Rhian! Run like the wind, for it be a leprechaun come to steal your soul. But this nighttime warning didn’t end with a glass of milk 82

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and a cookie. By the time this story ended, someone would die. *

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Kathleen Callaghan sat in front of Flannigan’s fireplace in an old, worn wing chair with an equally worn shawl covering her legs. For once the flattery of a handsome man wasn’t holding her attention. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it. Perhaps it was her latent Irish roots kicking in. Maybe it was the setting or the haunting lure of Davy’s whistle that unsettled her. It had begun when Rhian received the letter. It wasn’t jealousy. Kat certainly didn’t begrudge Rhian a little rest and relaxation. Rhian was her best friend and a responsible businesswoman. Savvy enough to know that the future of the BCDC rested on her shoulders—and feet—and gracious enough to accept the challenge with a smile. Which was why, when Davy called an intermission and excused himself to the men’s room, Kat used his absence to slip outside and have a smoke. She pulled a cigarette and lighter out of her handbag. She put the cigarette to her lips and struck the roller on the lighter. Instead of flaring to life, the lighter only sparked. Normally she would have sworn, tossed the empty disposable, and begged a light from someone. But for once the urge to light up didn’t overwhelm her. Instead, she felt an irresistible pull toward the castle. She looked up just as the moon became visible through a wash of dark clouds. The turret stood out in an eerie silhouette. Something was wrong. The night had an uneven feel to it, 83

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much like a sharp rhythm marred by a faulty tap. A gust of cold wind hit her in the face. The cigarette dropped from her lips. The door opened behind her. She turned and saw Davy standing in the doorway. Instead of the admiring glances she’d been warming up to all evening, she saw him staring warily at the castle. His eyes told a story she’d felt all night. “Let’s go,” she cried and grabbed his arm. She flattened the cigarette on the ground. *

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Seamus heard the echos behind him. The creak of the rusted gate. Footsteps behind him. One, no, two sets. But he clearly heard that Fergus and Paddy were lying in wait in the tower. He pressed himself flat against the cold stone wall and waited. If he were in true fighting form, he could use his magic to disappear into the wall and his company could walk right by him. Seamus’ acute hearing picked up a woman’s voice. Kat! Damn her. Now he had two women to worry about. Females! If they weren’t getting you locked up in some damned rock for a thousand or so years, then they were dancing around and teasing your staff to life and jumping all over it as it suited them. He recognized the second voice and was relieved that Davy was with her. He’d wait for them and he’d tell Davy to bloody well take her back to where she belonged. A hand on his shoulder made him start. They were above him. But how… “Barely saw you, old man. There’s still a little magic after 84

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all.” The observation surprised Seamus. “Go back, boy, and take her with you. This isn’t your fight.” But the younger sprite stood firm. “This is all our fight, Seamus. Especially if you get yourself killed. Then what are we to do? He’ll have us by the balls and squeeze as he pleases.” Eloquent words, yet true enough. Seamus tried to look grim, but there was no dissuading Davy. “Fine then. Keep Kat behind us.” Which was going to be difficult by the looks of Miss Kathleen Callaghan, with her wide eyes and open mouth, who practically crawled over Davy to get near Seamus. “Wow!” came the excited whisper. “Are you really Seamus? Wet dream Seamus? The Seamus in the rock Seamus. You are like, so hot. I mean, you know, for somebody who’s not real. No, I mean… Not that you’re not real. You’re just…” Davy looked over his shoulder at Kat, clearly confused. He tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear. “Oh, no, Davy. Not that you’re not hot. I mean I’ve been watching your tongue on that whistle and you have a lot of potential…” Seamus winked at Kat. “He’s a dick the size of a flag pole.” That shut her up. Her lips stopped moving and her mouth slid into a wide smile. Her eyes glazed over. She gave a tiny sigh and clearly ignored Seamus in favor of anything Davy had to say. And so far he’d said very little. Until now. 85

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“I’ve not the first focking idea what you’re getting at, love. But when this is all over I’ll give you a snog and a shag to write home about.” Seamus nudged Davy and nodded upward. “I’ll try to explain Americans to you…later.” Together the trio forged ahead up the stairs. *

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Rhian had a terrible headache. Her captors were sniping at each other. Back and forth. Jibe after antagonism after irritation. Like two lions fighting over a kill while the carcass grew cold. “I ain’ been laid in twenty-five years. I go first.” “Then you can wait ten more minutes.” “Hah! Ten minutes. Is that all you got in you, boy?” “Stop calling me ‘boy,’ old man.” “Respect your elders.” “I’ve seen that withered old prick. You couldn’t flog a fly.” “Age before beauty. And I was focking before the Druids were plugging knots in trees.” Rhian pulled at her ropes until her shoulders throbbed in pain. Then she strained against the bars until she was numb. Beads of sweat rolled down her cheeks and ran into her eyes. She wiped her face across her arm and noticed blood. Her wrists were raw. It was going to take a gallon of greasepaint to hide the abrasions. Of course she was assuming she’d get away at all. 86

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She shook her head to clear her mind. She had to get away. She blinked a few times to rid the stinging from her eyes. That’s when she saw movement near the edge of the stairwell. It was Seamus. Hope and fear flared in her breast. She tried not to let her face betray her arguing captors. She took a deep breath. God! She could smell him. Then she stilled. If she could smell him… Suddenly there was silence. She stared at the wall, trying think of a way to help him. But all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. She stared at the floor. Her peripheral vision picked up her discarded purse. It was upside down, the contents strewn across the floor. Her eyes came to rest on one of her boots. She glanced across the floor. Just one boot. It seemed an odd item to catch her attention. But no more than the rapid pulse and hammering heart—make that more than one. And the air had become suddenly thick with scents. Feral scents. Adrenaline. Kat’s perfume. Davy’s sweat. Seamus’s breath and the way it tasted on her lips. Suddenly her shoulder blades tingled in a way that made her want to reach around and scratch. The hard, cold stone floor beneath her feet suddenly disappeared and she found herself looking out the window of the turret room. But that was impossible. The window was ten feet off the floor! She opened her eyes to the moon. “My mother,” she whispered. “Look at me. I’m dancing on the air.” And suddenly she saw herself back in another time, another place. A tinkling laugh carried on the wind. Filmy wings curling open with the morning sun. The dew from her 87

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own body sparkling on the grass. Her lover slipping magic slippers on her feet. Angels clapping from above. “Oh, my mother forgive me for hurting you. But my heart calls.” “And you must listen to your heart, my daughter. You are Darianna, Princess of the Fae. You must follow your destiny, even if that destiny takes you far from home to another place, another time.” “But I have been selfish and thought only of my own heart. And those I love have suffered for it.” “It is my own selfishness that has caused the suffering, my child. It was wrong of me to try to keep you with me. I only want your happiness. And if your heart has survived the ages and waited for your one love, then you must go to he who loves you. I release you both. Blessings, my children.” The moon’s radiance brightened. Suddenly the room was alight with an ethereal glow. For an instant the beams were blinding. Rhian’s captors threw their hands across their eyes and crowed in pain. It was enough. Her rescuers rushed up from their hiding place at the top of the staircase. Davy and Seamus charged at their targets and tackled Fergus and Paddy. Kat took up the rear and was clutching one of Rhian’s boots, swinging at anything that moved. She worked her way over to Rhian. “Rhian…Rhian! Hey, exorcist girl! Can you hear me? Are you all right?” Rhian nodded weakly. “Damn! I don’t have anything to cut these ropes.” 88

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At the word cut Rhian returned to the world. “Seamus, watch out! Paddy has a knife,” she shouted. Almost immediately, a silver dagger skidded across the floor. Kat picked up the dagger and hacked away at Rhian’s bonds. “Davy, get them out of here!” Seamus and Fergus were circling each other. Paddy lay prostrate on the floor, but was still moving. Davy rushed over to the women. “Ladies, if ye please. We should hurry.” “No!” cried Rhian. “I’m not leaving without Seamus.” Davy was half-bowing, and half-pulling at Rhian. “Princess, please.” Rhian leveled her gaze at Davy. “Davy Butler, if you accept who I am, then you know I can’t leave.” Kat hugged Rhian protectively against her. “That’s an executive order, sweetie.” “Those are for presidents, Kat.” “Oh. Right. Then they’re…commands. She commands you to bugger off. But I’ll take up your case in person. Later.” “Kat. Davy.” They looked to her in unison. “Paddy’s on his feet.” Kat grabbed Davy and thrust him toward Rhian. “Guard her. This one’s mine.” And with that, she marched up behind Paddy and still clutching Rhian’s boot, smacked him across the back of the head. The little man crumpled to the floor. “That’s for having a small dick!” “Seamus!” Rhian broke free of Davy’s grasp. 89

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He was on the floor guarding his right side. He tried to get to his knees. A grimace of pain rippled across his face. “Little focker had a shiv. Oh, I’m not real hurt. Just an annoyance. Where’d the little bastard get off to?” Rhian crouched beside Seamus. She quickly scanned the room. “He’s gone! Oh, my love, are you sure you’re all right? Should we get you to a doctor—or something?” He lay sprawled on his stomach near the top of the stone staircase. A small pool of blood grew near the underside of his cheek. Rhian tore off a strip from her scarf and used it to wipe his face. She was relieved when he began to sit up. He shook his head a couple of times. Rhian stayed him. “Wait until you feel better. Rest here for a moment. Keep this pressed against your temple. It doesn’t look deep. I’ve got some small bandages in my bag. If there’s one thing dancers are never without, it’s bandages.” She passed Kat, who had tied up Paddy with her shoe laces. Kat handed Rhian the boots. “Nice to know these are good for something.” Rhian shoved them back into Kat’s hands. “Keep these in case he wakes up before the police get here. You did call the police.” “Uh, I had to use your cell phone, Rhian. Mine’s dead.” “Thanks. My roaming charges are going to bankrupt me.” “Hey, it’s better than being dead. How’s lover boy?” “He says it’s a flesh wound.” “Sure. That’s what the knight said when he got his arms and legs hacked off.” 90

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“Davy! Get over here and take Kathleen home.” “Rhian, are you sure? Maybe we should stay.” But she didn’t argue when Davy led her toward the stairs. Rhian grinned and shook her head as she heard Kat muttering. “My best friend is a fairy princess. Her guy-du-jour is a clerk’s hand something-or-another. And Davy-the-hottie-whistler, you’re…I don’t get you. At least not yet. But I will. And you’re taking Kathleen home. Isn’t that a song or something? Did you slip something into my drink…” She owed Kat an explanation. Someday. When this was all over and she understood it herself. Right now it was enough that Seamus had found her and he was alive. She was alive. More alive than she’d ever been, or ever hoped to be. Set free by her heart and a love that outlasted any curse. She still had a hard time believing that she was a vessel for a lost soul, let alone the soul of a fairy princess. Yes, there were things that defied logic and were past explanation. At the same time, it was hard to put herself in the same sentence with Area 51, Kennedy, and the Loch Ness Monster. The only thing she was really sure of was that right now, the man she loved was lying on the floor and bleeding. Rhian scoured the floor for the contents of her handbag until she located the bandages. She was hurrying back to Seamus, her attention on his injury, her mind full of confusion. The post adrenaline crash suddenly exhausted her. She tried to help Seamus to his feet. It was only at the last second that she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. “Rhian, look out!” 91

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Seamus tried to shield her as something dark flew at them from out of the high rafters of the stone room. At first she thought it was a bat. Then she saw a face. Fergus! He’d been hiding on the ceiling. Seamus dove down, trying to take Rhian with him. She was sure they were clear of the leprechaun’s grasp when she heard a sudden clatter. Something had fallen to the floor. A coin! At the last second, Fergus veered down to grab his lost booty. Rhian recognized the coin instantly. Seamus’s magic shilling. She dodged out from under Seamus’s body and threw herself on the coin. After eons of abuse in the wrong pocket, she wasn’t going to let Fergus get it again. But her uncovered head presented a perfect target. She screamed at the sudden, painful yank on her skull. Someone or something had grabbed her hair. She felt herself being dragged from Seamus’s side. The impact threw her forward past the first stair. She desperately scrambled to grab the safety banister—and missed. She heard screaming as she pitched forward into darkness. Then she heard nothing.

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CHAPTER 10 Pain! Searing. Throbbing. Crushing. Rhian opened her eyes. The ancient log ceiling above her swirled and threatened her stomach. She was too weak to move, let alone wretch. “She’s awake.” It was a woman’s voice. Old and deep. Rhian licked her dry lips and tried to turn her head toward the voice. “Granny…” she whispered. A large sigh answered her. “If only. But them what’s enchanted can never leave this place or their magic will cease to be.” “Magic. Seamus. Where’s—” 93

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“Right here, love.” A strong, warm hand caressed her cheek. She smiled. She tried to take a deep breath, but it was too painful. “I smell a cluricaun…and something…else.” “Well, that’s it. She’s on to us.” “Hush your mouth, Davy. She’s always been on to us. She just don’t remember, that’s all. Ah, but the darling child, she’ll be right as rain soon enough. Let’s leave her alone now. Seamus, try to get some broth down her throat. It’s special.” “I understand, Mary.” She slept. And dreamt. A dream of rose petals and flowing blond hair. Of a black head gently nuzzling the soft, pale patch between her thighs. Of warm fingers caressing her naked buttocks. A hot tongue snaked out through sensual lips and probed her outer core. An inquisitive nose parted her swollen flesh. She sighed at the pleasurable rush of sensations he created. A low, trembling murmur escaped from his throat. “What sweet nectar flows from your stream, little fae. How long have I waited to drink. ’Tis a thirst only you can quench.” She wrapped her hands around his head and ran her fingers through his hair. “Heal me, my love. Kiss deeply and make me whole again.” “I will…I promise…” *

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“What do you mean, heal her. What is she doing lying in that bed? She needs to be in a hospital,” demanded Kat as she pushed aside the cup of tea Mrs. Mac placed in front of her. “And what are all these people doing here?” 94

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“In good time, Kat.” She jerked her head toward Davy. “Davy, what the hell is going on? Can’t you see she needs medical attention. Christ! You carried her from the castle. Look at her legs. Her ankles are swollen. I know angulated fractures when I see them. And I know damned well she has a couple of broken ribs. Maybe her back, too. What if there’s real trouble and she can’t walk again. She needs X-rays. She needs an ambulance. She needs—” “She need only believe, child.” “Mrs. Mac! Please, do something. She could be hemorrhaging inside.” But instead of answering Kat, she looked up as Seamus came into the kitchen. “Well?” Seamus came over to stand behind Kat. He put his hands on her shoulders. “She’s going to be just fine in a few minutes. Mary, is everyone here?” Kat jerked her head up. “Everyone? What everyone? This isn’t a walk.” “It isn’t a wake either. Tell them to come into the kitchen, Mary.” Kat stared in amazement as several villagers invaded Mrs. Mac’s kitchen and formed a circle around the table. Davy slipped in beside Kat. “Did she drink some of the broth, Seamus?” “You mean that putrid concoction you had brewing on the stove? Yech!” 95

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Davy squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. Just close your eyes and be silent for a few minutes.” The villagers joined hands, including Kat. Once the circle had formed. Kat felt a strange sensation flow through her. It got stronger and stronger, like lava flowing toward the opening of a volcano. Then a sudden snap of electricity, a flare of light. Then a flash freeze. Weakness and fatigue spread through her, yet she still held firm to the hand on each side of her. Only now instead of feeling warm flesh, she felt a cool roughness clinging to her fingers. She dared open one eye just a tiny slit. Then both wide until she thought her eyes would pop. Nothing came from her mouth as she looked around the table. If it were not for the hands still gripping her on either side, she would have hit the floor when she fainted. *

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“Wake up, my love.” Rhian yawned and sighed deeply. She hated waking up before the alarm. Who was bothering her at this time of the morning? Then her mind cleared. She waited for the pain to come. Nothing. The doctors must have given her some morphine. Except the sounds she normally heard after surgery were not evident. She blinked a couple of times. She was still in the bed at Mrs. McCarthy’s B & B. Which meant she was still in Blarney. Had she been dreaming—again? The door opened. Seamus sauntered in—alone. He casually took a seat on the side of the bed, which groaned in protest to his weight. 96

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“I’ve got news for you, lover. Your charms aren’t getting lucky today,” she said. He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a fourleaf clover. “This is all the luck you’ll ever need.” Rhian tentatively moved her body. Satisfied she was able to accomplish this without pain, she sat up. “I don’t feel any pain. Is that because I’m…paralyzed?” Laughter erupted beside her. “What’s so goddamned funny? I took a header down a few dozen stone stairs. I should be in a million pieces.” “Oh, you flew all right. You just didn’t get the landing down. Here, I have a present for you.” She couldn’t have been more surprised when Seamus reached down beside the bed and set a brand new pair of hard shoes in her lap. Again, they were beautiful. Lured by the scent of new leather, she picked them up. The taps gleamed like polished silver. “Go ahead. Try them on.” This time she laughed. “Yeah. Okay. I know this whole thing wasn’t a dream. I’ve got burn marks on my wrist to prove—wait a minute. What happened to the rope burns? The goose-egg on my head…” She gently prodded her scalp. “It’s…gone. What is it? Ice packs, cortisone? Am I shot up with pain killers? I can’t move my feet. I can’t… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…I can move my feet. I…I…” The rest was lost as Seamus tore back the sheets and took the shoes from her lap. He slipped each one on to her foot and tied a perfect bow. 97

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Rhian gasped, entirely speechless at the incredulous miracle. Not only had Seamus placed a snug fitting hard toe shoe on her swollen foot, the swelling was actually gone. She tested the foot with a careful point-and-flex. Amazing! No pain. But could she put any weight on the foot? She eased herself off the mattress and sat on the edge of the bed. “Go ahead,” Seamus gently urged her. “Remember, you have the soul of a princess fae. You’ve danced on the air, whipped the summer wind into torrents which turned the ocean waves into froth. You’re light as a breath over the green banks without ever so much as disturbing a single blade.” Blarney! He’d spent way too much time locked up in a rock. She was sure the moment she put any weight on her injured foot, she’d fall flat on her face. Or not. She closed her eyes and took a deep, bracing breath. And stood up. Painlessly. She turned her questioning gaze on Seamus, who still sat cross-legged on the bed. A proud, yet unassuming smile sat on his lips. He nodded toward her. Confident now, Rhian placed her entire weight on the toes of her hard shoes. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed. And they were. The black leather, silky-soft against her skin. The buckle shone as if it were made of starlight. The shinny taps rang sharp and clear. He shrugged. “Hey, it’s what I do.” “I…I don’t be—” “Now, now…” “All right. Yes. Yes! I do believe.” Joy and relief flooded 98

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through her. She all but jumped on the bed and into Seamus’s arms, laughing, “Okay, you do magic. You make great shoes. You’re the best partner a dancer could ever have, not to mention the most wonderful lover a woman could wish for. You’re definitely hired!” “Seamus!” Rhian started at Mrs. Mac’s voice. She turned. The woman stood in the doorway clad in her usual frumpy attire. But something about her had changed. The lines of her brow seemed more withered than usual, her cheeks plumper and her…her ears? “It’s time you told her, Seamus.” “Told me what?” Seamus gently unfolded her arms about his neck. He cupped her face in his hands. A serious look came into his eyes. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. “This,” he said simply and turned her toward the doorway. Not only were they no longer alone, but a small crowd had gathered in the room. Really small. Rhian gasped in amazement as a clan of shriveled forms approached her. Crooked backs and pointed ears all of them, but still bearing traces of the mortals they had been. Mrs. Mac, Flannigan, Davy, and even Beulah Buchanan. She was now looking at what appeared to be leprechauns or refugees from a sci-fi convention. In their reduced state they stared up at her. She could only swallow and stare back. Mrs. Mac pushed herself to the front. “We’ve all been here such a very long time, waiting for you. And waiting. Go 99

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ahead, Seamus. Tell her.” Speechless, Rhian looked to him for an explanation. “It was Fergus,” he began. “He kept this entire village under his thumb. As if keeping me prisoner wasn’t bad enough. He had my magic shilling, the only true pot of gold that ever existed. He’d rather let the castle go to wrack and ruin and his own kind in the village die out than to see me free. My love, you see before you not only the last of the cluricaun, but the last of a grand line of the leprechaun as well. Oh, there are others who’ve made unworthy reputations in the modern world; mouldering in hollowed-out stumps and hiding under bridges and such. But the wicked kind.” “Aye,” croaked Flannigan. “Them be the black sheep ye hear tell of. They gets a mitt full of the drink, creeps out at night and runs amok. Foulsom deeds like turning the wool on new lambs and spoiling well water. The kind what Fergus would consort with.” He spat on the floor a little too close to Mrs. Mac’s foot. She spun around and heaved a swat so hard that one of Flannigan’s leprechaun ears flopped forward. “Owe! Mary!” “I just cleaned this room. Ye’ve a troll’s manners, Mickey.” Mickey rubbed his ear. “Ah, but an eye for a fine, plump lass, eh?” Then he winked at Mary, which Rhian noted crinkled up the entire one side of his face. What changelings these leprechaun were, not at all like the creatures of lore and legend Granny spoke of. 100

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“So why are they—” She turned her attention from Seamus to the clan. “I mean why are you here instead of off making shoes and guarding your crock of gold?” Davy Butler let out a bleating laugh. “Ye think us daft, lass? Why should we live under hedgerows like worms when we can live in comfort with a warm fire and sound roof over our heads. We have evolved.” A collective murmur of agreement followed him. “Ye see this?” He tugged at his knitted sweater. “Ordered from Harrod’s and delivered by post. How’s that for magic, eh?” “But why…excuse me, but why live out here with the dirt roads and the sheep shit?” “Because of me.” It was Seamus who answered her question. “They came here because I was the only one who could protect them.” “I don’t understand. You were locked in the stone.” “Fergus’s fate was to watch over me. As long as I remained a prisoner, he could never die. His immortality was guaranteed by the curse and his prosperity by my shilling. They settled in this village with the hope that someday I’d be free. Unfortunately Fergus made slaves of them.” “But how? If they have the power to be seen as mortal, then why couldn’t they just tell Fergus to…to…” “Fock off?” Trust Mrs. Mac to provide the answer. “’Tis simple, princess. Our magic had faded to almost nothing over time. A leprechaun needs a purpose. Our purpose is to watch over our crock. But with Fergus holding the source of the crock, we had no purpose. Oh, we had a call to do his bidding. 101

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Me, I fed him. Flannigan here provided the drink. Davy made the music and Beulah kept the dance alive. But it was Mairdrid—” “My Mairdrid? You mean…Granny?” “Aye, the same. My Mairdrid, who married a mortal and left these shores. She gave birth to your mother, in a free land, far away from the reach of Fergus. The first time she looked into your eyes she saw the soul of Darianna and the salvation of us all. It was only a matter of time until you’d find your way back to us and your true self.” “And to me, my love.” Rhian faced Seamus. “So, what happens now?” She was almost afraid of the answer. Fergus was gone. Paddy was in jail. She glanced over at the group. They looked old and worn, forlorn and unhappy. If Seamus was free, what had gone wrong? “You have to dance.” “What?” “What you see here is the result of these folk using every last ounce of magic they had to cure you. The last of my own magic is on your feet.” He nodded downward. “The shoes. It’s what—” “It’s what you do. Yeah.” She believed now. The myth dissolved into fact. Rhian wiggled her agile toes inside the shoes. Only an hour ago the bones were shattered, the skin swollen and bruised. Her recovery, if at all, seemed in doubt. Her career over with the likelihood that she would never walk unaided again. Now she felt as if she could dance from Dublin 102

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to Galway and back again. But it had come at a terrible cost. Of course she had to dance. And Seamus had to dance with her. It seemed now like the right thing to do, as if it was destined all along. She might be Rhiann MacNamara, the woman from Boston, but her toes belonged to Darianna, the fairy dancer. Somehow she had known it all along. She fixed her gaze on Seamus. They were fae eyes, linked to a fae soul. But it was still a woman’s heart beating beneath her breast. Woman or fae, it was a heart stirred by love and the ancient connection she had with a being who shared the same fate of separation. It was by this same destiny they had found each other again. Like the leprechaun around her, she needed a purpose or she, too, would cease to exist. And like them, she was a child of the nether world. A creature of Tir na nOg. Her purpose was suddenly clear; to share her future with Seamus. She hadn’t come to Ireland; she had come home. “I hear tell from Kathleen that your troupe will arrive tomorrow. I believe we have some practicing to do.” “But what about Fergus? Where is he?” “In hiding, as far as we know. It may be decades before he decides to show himself again.” “So…he could come back.” “But not to here. The shilling is restored. Each of these faithful souls will receive their crock. And they can return to their mortal forms if they wish.” “And you can dance.” The voice was Kat’s. She leaned against the door frame, her face an unflattering shade of white. “Yeah, had to see it to believe it.” She spied Davy in the 103

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crowd and grimaced. She pointed. “You are so going back to the way you were.” Davy shrugged his crooked shoulders. “She likes me flag pole.” The crowd gave a low chuckle. Rhian became aware of a constant tug on her nightgown. She looked down and realized she still had an audience. Mrs. Mac stared up at her, the woman’s beady eyes peeking out like two round marbles through a green scrunchie! Her squat, hairy fingers pulled at Rhian’s wrist. “What about you and Seamus?” Seamus came to stand behind her. She turned to look into his eyes. “Granny said the enchanted can never leave here. That’s means…” “The moment you leave this place, you’ll never dance again.” Rhian digested this information. Deep inside she always knew it. She realized then that she hadn’t come home at all. In fact, she had never left. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.” Then she looked across the room at Kat who was still ruefully sizing up her new mate, who still maintained his mythic stature. As if sensing her perusal, Davy turned his small, hairy head toward Rhian and winked. Instantly, he transformed into a tall, handsome man. Arm in arm, they left the bedroom. “Anything else, princess?” Rhian gazed into Seamus’s eyes and smiled. “Yeah, there is one thing. Don’t call me princess. Now, get your shoes on. We have a show to do. I have to practice taking my final 104

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bow.” *

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And though it has never been established as a fact, there are those who believe that somewhere in the other world beyond the land of Tir na nOg, beats the heart not of a lost princess, but that of a loving wife and frequent mother. On the waxing of the Samhain moon, deep in the green glen, and echoing across the moor through the mist comes another sound—the collected cadence of dancing feet, toes tapping, heels clicking. And in the rare silence can be heard the sharp ring of a silver hammer patiently making shoes for a growing brood—and one fae woman with a very large closet!

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CHEVON GAEL

Chevon has been writing professionally for six years. She is a Canadian girl, born and raised, who loves the ski slopes in the winter and combing the beaches of the Maritime Provinces in the summer. She is happily married to a true-blue, red-blooded Canadian Mountie. Chevon and her husband belong to a shorthaired domestic tabby named Buddy. *

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Don’t miss Dangerous To Love, by Chevon Gael, available at AmberHeat.com!

A mother will do anything to protect her children from harm— even break the law, if necessary. Tara Morgan is that mother. A desperate woman in a desperate situation. She won’t let anything get in her way. Certainly not macho Mountie Brett Sinclair. And it doesn’t matter a damn how good he kisses! A half-naked woman asleep by the side of the road. An exlingerie model turned designer. Every man’s fantasy. A damsel in distress. P.C. Sinclair’s luck just changed. Or did it?

She’s a mobster’s ex on the run. Now she’s in his house. In the next bedroom. What red-blooded male wouldn’t want her? But is she too dangerous to love?

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