by Dawn Madigan
Dara gritted her teeth. He was giving her that smile—and her hands were itching to wipe it right off his face. “Okay, you’ve had your fun, Mackey, now give me back my car keys! There’s no friggin’ way I’m playing Playboy centerfold by hopping on that bike with nothing but your shirt on!” She gave him her own sweet smile, her tone chilly enough to freeze. “Coming to think of it, there’s no friggin’ way I’m hopping on that bike at all!”
“Nice try,” Rowan said appreciatively, cutting her short. “But your car keys stay with me for now, and so do you. We made a deal, remember?” He stooped down to his Suzuki and fumbled again within his knapsack’s depths, wrestling something out.
That’s it. She wasn’t taking any more of this shit!
“A deal? An extortion is more like it!” Dara leaped forward like a caged tiger cut loose.
Rowan turned away from his bike, something clutched in his hand, just as Dara stormed him. Her fists were suddenly hammering at his chest, and he could do nothing but stare at the frenzied look in her eyes and the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I hate you!” She gritted between broken gasps. “I…”
Her head sagged and he felt her face and her small fists pressing into his skin. She was trembling and sobbing with rage against his chest, making choked sounds like a wounded animal. He let the object clasped in his hand drop to the ground at their feet. His arms rose to hug her, hesitant at first, and then he wrapped them roughly about her quivering shoulders. She was still sobbing, and he lowered his face to her messy hair, embracing her with all he had to offer.
Her arms were suddenly circling his neck. She lifted her face to his, lips parting. Without thinking his mouth dived to seal hers and his tongue sought the alluring gap she’d opened.
Dara moaned into Rowan’s mouth, kissing him back with an almost-desperate need.
He cradled her face in his feverish, large palms. Dara’s floral, fresh scent wafted about him and ensnared his senses. His lips pressed harder against her soft, moist warmth and his tongue plundered her mouth. He felt her fingers tightening in his hair. Her nipples, chilly and firm, stabbed his naked chest through the thin cloth of the shirt he’d given her.
Dara felt Rowan’s bulging erection pressing through his jeans against her abdomen. The naked flesh of her inner thighs was warm with a familiar, welling wetness.
Their kiss became bruising, demanding. Rowan’s hungry hands roamed all over, claiming her for himself. He cupped her ass cheeks and pressed her hard against him, lifting her slightly. It made her rise on tiptoes, parting her thighs, as her arms clutched him tightly for support. It felt like he was trying to fuck her through his jeans, through her shirt. She was out of breath, on the verge of a soft orgasm.
The light sprinkle of rain became a shower, pasting hair and clothes against skin as their kiss went wild.
Dara suddenly flattened her palms against Rowan’s rain-moist chest and shoved back sharply, breaking their kiss.
“Please,” he whispered, complying with a visible effort. He was breathing heavily. His eyes held a need so raw, and yet something more was in their stormy depths…
She shook her head and drew back, hugging herself in a failed attempt to quell her trembling. Their eyes locked and for a while they just stared at one another, each struggling to catch his breath.
“Your Scían,” he said.
“My what?”
“Your dagger,” he repeated and pointed to the ritual dagger tucked in its sheath along with its rig, lying at his feet. “I was just taking it out of my pack to give back to you when…”
“Thanks,” she said quickly, taking a tentative step that put her close to him again. She knelt at his feet, scooping up her dagger. Slowly she straightened, shooting a wary look up at Rowan’s face.
She gasped and he inquired, alarmed, “Dara, is something wrong?”
“The sky’s a perfect blue, and there’s no rain,” she whispered.
“’Tis Tir Na n’Og. Sure an’ it never rains here!” Brighid’s voice cheeped jovially from somewhere nearby.
Both their heads snapped to the forgotten little redhead as they spoke in unison,
“Tir Na n’Og?”
Chapter Six
The sky stretched an endless azure, sprinkled with feathery strands of light clouds. It was the soft blue of early spring, divested of the summer sky’s harsh radiance. Soft fragrances and faint music wafted about with a mild breeze, and fresh green meadows rustled softly towards the far horizon, where distant mountains hovered like purple shadows.
“Do you two hear bells?” Dara withdrew completely from Rowan, making a slow swivel on her heels. “Like wind chimes, and something more…far away. Could that be pipe music?”
Tir Na n’Og…the Otherworld. Was she caught, somehow, in a surreal dream?
Even the squishy feeling of treading in mud was gone. Bemused, Dara lowered her eyes to the ground, only to find herself submerged up to her knees in rustling green. The tall grass blades were bejeweled with slow-melting dewdrops, trembling slightly in the soft breeze.
But wherever they were, something wasn’t quite right about this beautiful land. Dara couldn’t place her finger on it, but something vague was there, making the back of her neck prickle. She sneaked a glance at Rowan. If he felt something, he sure wasn’t showing it. Maybe the odd feeling sprang from the wet t-shirt that clung to her every curve, clearly outlining her nipples and the roundness of her butt.
She shrugged with practiced ease into her dagger’s shoulder rig, then tugged nervously at her soaked shirt.
Goddess, she could be a finalist in the local wet t-shirt competition!
Assuming they held one here, of course.
“How did we cross the Veil? I didn’t feel us move, Brighid.” Rowan filled his lungs with the cool, fresh air, hoping to chase away the erotic haze that Dara’s rich flavor had impressed upon his senses. He drew in another lungful, his mind clearing somewhat.
Good.
He needed to stay sharp for this one.
“There are many more ways of moving, Rowan, than putting one leg in front of the other,” Brighid replied. She walked through the grass, striding away from the mauve-shaded mountains, obviously expecting Dara and Rowan to follow. “The Veil between the Realms grows very thin on Samhain. It’s easier to see the Gateways. The Portland Safe Grounds do have one, you know. So while you two were…at it…I just gave us all a little push—so we’d slip right through.” She tossed them a satisfied grin over her shoulder, smoothing a hand through her wind-tousled locks.
“Samhain? You mean Halloween?” Dara was standing still, her eyes wide.
“Samhain, Dara—Summer’s end, the first of the four Celtic fire festivals marking the turning of the seasons.” Rowan shook his head. “Didn’t your parents teach you anything, sweetheart?”
Well, actually no, they hadn’t. She blushed profusely.
“I’m not your sweetheart,” she mumbled vaguely, averting her gaze from his. “I was just thinking—uh—Halloween’s Eve is celebrated on the thirty-first of October, and we ended up here, wherever here is, on the first of November. Does your nifty ‘Veil Theory’ also apply to All Saints Day?”
She knew she was babbling. Big time. She started to plow through the tall grass, the light wind failing to cool her heated cheeks.
“It doesn’t really matter, Dara. The Celts measured the day sundown to sundown.” Rowan joined Dara’s side in two long strides. He reached out and gently brushed aside her mass of black curls, exposing a scalding cheek. “What’s the matter?” he softly inquired.
Dara shook his hand away with an almost-violent head jolt. “Why are we following this banshee—Brighid—anyway?” She halted abruptly, forcing Rowan to wheel about in surprise. “Where are we following her?”
Brighid stopped and turned to face them with obvious annoyance. “’Tis my duty to escort you both to Lia Fáil. Traveling Below is safer than the Upper Realm’s ocean and sky with its ships and air
planes. Imagine…” She bit her lower lip in thought. “Oh—imagine we’re taking a shortcut, a side alley, instead of crossing the main road.”
“Hmm.” Rowan seemed less than satisfied with the explanation. He glanced Dara’s way, troubled by her odd change of mood. What had he done wrong this time? Not counting kidnapping her, almost getting her killed, and forcing sex on her. There was something else his reluctant mate wasn’t telling him, and he was determined to get to the bottom of her current sulking.
Meanwhile, he had a banshee to interrogate.
“Say, Brid. Not that I’m not grateful for your services, but why’s a banshee playing tour guide instead of attending to her own Mortal family? And which Mortal family do you care for?”
Brighid rolled her eyes skyward, clearly unimpressed. “By the Morrigu, do you truly expect me to go over the ancient prophecy now?”
“Aye.” Rowan cocked an incredulous brow. “Since I know not a bleedin’ thing about this prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” Dara exclaimed, utterly at a loss.
The redheaded banshee gathered her gray cloak tighter about her shoulders despite the temperate climate, her blasé attitude evaporating. Evidently she had blurted out much more than she had intended. She shifted from one foot to another, opened her mouth and closed it about three times, and still said nothing.
“Nice fish imitation.” Rowan glowered at her. “Now, speak!”
Brighid lanced him with a sour glance.
“Aye, the prophecy, well,” she grated out, “’tis said that some minor passages are missing from the formal texts of the Lebor Gabála Érenn. And ‘tis said as well that if you feast your eyes on the original texts, the completed ones, you might find in there Queen Eriu’s full prophecy.”
She was staring at her own feet now with keen interest.
Rowan sensed that was all he could hope to worm out of her for the time being. His undivided attention focused on Dara as he prowled towards his mate with a predator’s stealth.
She went stock-still as his gaze fell upon her, like a deer caught in the headlights.
“The Lebor Gabála Érenn means Book of Conquests in Gaelic,” Rowan softly intoned. His sizzling gaze spanned her frozen outline as he slowly moved around her. She was still attempting to evade his eyes, her tongue flicking over her lower lip in a nervous gesture.
“The book was compiled during the twelfth century, maybe earlier,” Rowan murmured at her back, dropping his mouth to her ear. “’Tis an ancient text, it tells of the six waves of invasion to Erin—Ireland—by races of gods and men. The earliest of recorded Irish history. Should I go on, Dara?”
He rolled her name on his tongue, soft and lilting.
Dara had never guessed her name could sound so… risqué.
“Go on,” she urged, shifting with unease as he slowly circled her. The man’s blatant virility kicked her aura into a high-voltage state.
Rowan halted, facing her. His fingers trapped a dark curl, smoothing it away from her face. His heat thrummed over her skin. Dara gazed at Rowan, unthinkingly molding into his touch.
It seemed their bodies were engaging in a nonverbal dialogue of their own.
Rowan spoke with a husky voice, his mate’s closeness swirling sugary heat into his body. “Our distant ancestors, the Tuatha dé Danann, made the fifth wave of invasion to Erin,” he continued. “They overthrew the former inhabitants—and reigned over the isle for almost two centuries. Then they were defeated by the last wave—the sons of King Miled of Spain—”
“Spain?” Her voice was breathy.
“Aye, sweetheart, Spain—the ancient Iberian peninsula. These new invaders were named the Milesians, after their king, Miled. They were Celt-Iberians—the first Celts to settle in Ireland. You probably know the rest of it…”
“No, actually I don’t,” Dara whispered. She expelled a shuddering breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.
Rowan quirked a brow, evidently puzzled by her words. He smoothed gentle fingers down Dara’s burning cheek, and made an effort to tie up his tale. “The dé-Danann retreated to the Otherworld, leaving the Upper Earth to the Milesian Celts,” he said roughly. “But a few were chosen by the Goddess Danu to keep to the Upper Earth. These chosen few became the true founders of our bloodline, the Kanjali—the Bound-Ones. Is this all new to you, Dara?”
“Most of what you’ve just said, yeah.” Her voice was tight. She briefly shut her eyes, trembling as Rowan’s fingers brushed lower, feather-light, sketching the outline of her neck.
“I don’t understand, Dara. ‘Tis our history, our blood. Those that remained in Ireland know this story by heart, as should be.” Rowan spoke quietly, nothing humorous about his tone now. His fingers halted their sensuous glide, lingering over the shallow hollow at the base of Dara’s neck.
Dara stilled beneath his touch, her face heating even more. Her eyes popped open, wounded and dark. “You think I like it, then, Mackey?” she lashed out. “You think I like being this way?”
“What way, sweetheart?” He regarded her face, his gaze intent and wary.
“Ignorant,” she said offhand, once more refusing to meet his eyes.
She caught a flurry of red and green out of the corner of her eye—Brighid, who was rather annoyed at being ignored for so long.
Quick, strong fingers captured Dara’s chin, tilting her face up. She found herself staring straight into Rowan’s solemn green eyes, this time unable to escape. One of his fingers stroked along the line of her jaw, a gentle back-and-forth. This small movement danced hot currents down her spine. She drew in a shaky breath, her captive gaze shackled to the Irishman’s stormy one.
“What do you know, sweetheart?”
Rowan’s voice dropped to that rough-soft blend that had earlier raised goose bumps all over Dara’s bare skin. Her frenzied heartbeat suddenly leaped to her throat.
“I-I’ve always known my family was different, but I didn’t know exactly how,” she mumbled. “My parents used to make a big secret out of everything. I caught some bits here and there—I knew that there were others…”
Her words died away as Rowan lowered his mouth over hers, lips almost touching. His breath heated her skin, both his hands now draped about her nape. Her breath hitched. It felt just like back at that party, when she’d first seen him, when she’d been sure he was about to kiss her—
“Sweetheart,” Rowan spoke roughly, scattering her thoughts. “I didn’t know you’d never been told.”
His mouth hovered so close, she could feel each softly voiced word breathed over her lips. His warm hands nestled against her neck. She yearned for his touch, his taste, his male-beast scent suffusing her breath. She longed for this man to close the hairsbreadth gap between their mouths and just kiss her.
“Rowan, no. Don’t.” Dara heard her own pleading whisper, felt the slow, reluctant release of his hold on her.
He said nothing, only watched her with the same raw look in his eyes she’d seen when they’d kissed in the midst of the downpour.
She broke away from him, shaken at the thought that the soft male mouth sealing hers, the large, powerful yet gentle hands teasing her flesh, should have been someone else’s.
Aidan, her spirit screamed soundlessly. I shouldn’t be doing this. Not when I can still feel you nearby…feel you right here.
“What’s missing from the Book of Conquests?” Rowan had turned towards Brighid.
“That you shall learn at a later time, Kanjali,” the banshee sourly replied, frowning at him. “Maybe.”
Rowan squinted. Tearing his gaze—along with his mind—from Dara O’Shea–Neilan had cost him the better part of his famed willpower. He was in a desperate need of a cold shower, and ‘twas likely he wouldn’t have one anytime soon. He was in no mood for games. Not this kind of game, anyway. “Then tell me something else, Brid,” he growled. “Which of the Mortal families is under your care?”
This time he got nothing more than the slightest of shrugs.
/> “Why should we follow you, then?” he offered quietly, a tiny muscle ticking in his jaw. “For all I know, you’ve been leading us straight to doom’s gates.”
“’Cause your other option would be finding your own way back Up, all by yourselves,” the banshee tossed back at him.
Rowan mumbled something incoherent that sounded particularly tangled and spicy.
Dara gave a tight, humorless chuckle. “The only upside I can see here is you getting a spoonful of your own medicine, Mackey.”
He shot her a quick look, about to answer, when the air filled with a rising howl. It breached their consciousness, making them realize the sound had already been there for the last few seconds—distant, swelling slowly, spilling down from the purple mountains. It also assumed an individuality as it grew louder, like features becoming readable on a face as it emerged from the darkness. The sound became a bloodcurdling blend of a human scream and a beastly howl.
A couple seconds passed before the three of them realized the sound had already died away, leaving only far-off echoes trailing behind it.
Chapter Seven
Rowan was the first to react. His hand shot out and he pulled Dara tightly against his chest, draping a protective arm about her. She made a futile attempt to elbow him loose, finding it very much like pounding against a rock.
“Let me go!” she whispered through her teeth.
Reluctantly, he did.
Dara swayed away from his body heat, her gait somewhat unsteady.
The man had a way of effectively clouding her mind whenever they shared the same breathing space. She needed some fresh air, stat!
Brighid’s face went a shade paler. “It must have come through the Veil with us,” she whispered.
“It?” Dara managed, shooting the banshee an inquiring glance.
