by Dawn Madigan
Further along the hallway, Rowan halted before a door, releasing Dara’s hand.
“Maybe you should do the honors, Dara,” he offered with a light teasing bow, gesturing to the door.
Dara studied the heavy door with mounting suspicion. It was solid wood, carved with complex flower designs and tiny joyous birds, same as the rest of the mansion’s doors.
“Well, here goes,” she finally sighed and cracked it open, flicking the light switch on.
She sucked in a surprised gasp as the single light bulb’s yellowish glow spilled upon another stairway, its narrow steps climbing steeply up a short, straight frame.
“You gave me an attic room!” she exclaimed into the oblong space, her voice giving an odd resonance.
Her weariness shed for the moment, Dara leaped up the stairs with childlike zeal. She paused at the doorway, then entered the room’s snug warmth with a tentative first step. Her curious gaze met an airy, vibrant space, full of warm colors and equipped with a small, convenient bathroom. The Summer Room. Its name fit it perfectly, she could tell, even though moonlight was currently shining in through the sloping window.
“You like it,” Rowan stated close behind her, sounding smug.
“It’ll do,” she retorted, failing to conceal her growing smile.
He chuckled, not fooled by her feigned nonchalance. “Aislinn donated some clothes that might fit you.”
Dara slipped into the bathroom and positioned herself in front of the mirror. She scrutinized the face reflected back at her.
Goddess, when had she grown so pale?
There were thin lines etched into her face that she hadn’t noticed before, and bluish half-moons hung beneath her eyes. And her hair, it was a mess of sweat-clumped tangles and knots! Fatigue poured back in like a flood. She rested her hands against both sides of the sink, struggling against the growing lump in her throat.
“Tired?” Rowan questioned softly behind her.
She hadn’t heard him approach—no surprise in that. Suddenly he was there, his firm chest propping up her back. He fitted his chin into the crook of her neck, his long-muscled arms locking around her waist.
“I’ll start the water running,” he said, “and get you inside that tub. Help you soap your back.”
“Rowan, I’m fine, really—”
“No, you’re not.”
She kept her hands against the sink as his arms left her, and he turned to fiddle with the bath faucets. Water splashed with a sharp slap against the tub, and then the sound was muted as Rowan adjusted the heat.
“Come over here, princess,” he commanded, a familiar grin in his voice.
“Princess?” She smiled, swiveling to face him. “Which makes you what? Han Solo?”
“That name, ‘tis from an American film, right?” Rowan watched her as he crouched by the oval tub, his hand dipping into the hot water.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” He cocked a flaming brow, seeming to be genuinely surprised.
‘Kay, so Rowan Mackey wasn’t exactly a Star Wars enthusiast. A smile flickered over Dara’s lips. She swayed closer to Rowan, the top of her boots now about the same level as his chest.
“You know, I really miss my sneakers,” she informed him.
“True, sweetheart, they are much easier to kick off. But not as fun.”
Still kneeling in front of her, he smoothed his hands up her calves, dipping his fingers into the shallow, warm hollows at the back of her knees.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to take a boot off,” Dara quipped.
If the man kept on touching her this way, she’d self-combust in no time…
“Thanks for the tip.” Rowan sighed in resignation and climbed both his hands up Dara’s right thigh, swiftly undoing the descending line of buckles and laces.
“This feels so S and M,” she groaned as she watched his quick fingers working on her.
“Aye,” he laughed. “I’d do it slower, but the state you’re in right now—by the time I finished, you’d topple over me, fast asleep. Raise your leg for me, princess.”
Dara rolled her eyes at the hint of continued role-play and clutched Rowan’s shoulders for support, leaning into him as she flexed one knee. His hands left a trail of warmth in their wake as he peeled away the clinging leather. Finally, her right boot dropped to curl against the floor tiles. Dara squeezed her eyes shut, regretting the instant Rowan’s hands had abandoned her skin.
“The other leg now, please,” he commanded, his voice blurred by the soft sound of running water.
Dara obliged.
Both Rowan’s gaze and his hands came to rest on her left thigh. He let out a soft breath, stroking the alabaster flesh that taunted him through the boot laces.
Dara bit her lip.
Rowan slowly started to work his way down her left leg.
She absently tightened her grip on his shoulders as his fingers lasciviously danced over the skin-tight leather. The way he was touching her legs threw her pulse into a fit. By the time both her boots lay like abandoned snakeskin against the spattered tiles, her breathing was as labored as if she’d run a marathon.
Rowan glanced up, instantly spying the heat in Dara’s flushed face.
He reacted like quicksilver, skimming his hands back up Dara’s legs. His touch lingered just beneath her skirt’s hem, hesitating, and then he lifted up the tight garment. The skirt bunched into a tight belt above Dara’s hips. It left her bare to Rowan’s eyes from the waist down. He gave a soft hiss and dug his head between her thighs, pushing them apart, nudging his face against her damp pussy.
Dara gasped aloud, swaying.
She felt hot…shaky…lightheaded.
“Easy.” He caught her naked hips, steadying her.
“I’m f-fine,” she managed.
Hugging her to him, Rowan gazed up at her from between her legs. He brushed his mouth over the dark thatch atop her mons, his eyes hot with need. Shifting lower, deeper between her thighs, he darted his tongue to her clit. His splayed fingers pressed into her ass cheeks, forcing her tighter against his mouth.
Dara dragged in a hissing breath, throwing her head back, eyes closed. She clasped Rowan’s shoulders tighter. Goddess, she couldn’t remain standing for long. She couldn’t—
Propping up her weight with one arm, his hand stroked along the cleft of her ass, sliding lower between her butt cheeks. His fingers shifted, dipping into her cunt from behind.
Dara let out an involuntary groan. Her legs began a fine tremble, almost giving out beneath her. Rowan’s fingers, his tongue, felt so hot. As if his touch had tattooed her flesh, eternally branding her. Oh, Goddess, she was wet. She wanted Rowan’s fingers to go deep inside her cunt. Wanted him deep inside. But she couldn’t handle it right now, the world was starting to spin. She just felt so tired—
The neglected water was now boiling with heat, puffing a bloated cloud of steam into the tub. It bloomed into a vaporous mushroom and spilled over the tub’s curved edge, swathing both of them in thickening shells of milky haze. Moist heat breathed over Dara’s skin.
“Rowan,” she warned, her voice strangled, and still she couldn’t bring herself to move away from him, not even to cut off the scorching water’s flow.
Rowan started. With a bestial growl he wrenched his face and hands away from Dara’s moist skin and spun to face the tub. He avoided the hot metal valves the best he could, and broke the water’s flow with a furious grip-and-jerk.
He turned back to Dara in the abrupt silence that had fallen over the room. She was shivering all over, eyes wild, her arms hanging by her sides like heavy weights. The tub was still exuding steam clouds, but the water’s bellowing roar was gone. The only sound filling the tight space was their own heavy breathing.
“It’ll be a couple of minutes before I can start the water again,” Rowan finally said.
“It’s okay,” she nodded, gasping as he suddenly hugged her to him with force, burying his head in the fle
sh of her thighs. Rowan was taller than most men, and her height was average at best. Dara watched with shock as the big Irishman curled against her, clasping her lower body to his torso.
“No, ‘tis not okay.” He entrusted the muffled words to her flesh, dampening her skin with a sigh. “You’re shivering, sweetheart, and most of it is tiredness. ‘Tis far from okay.”
His “okay” sounded as if he’d spat it out, too angry with himself to soften the word.
“Rowan, please don’t.” She reached down to him, hardly needing to bend, touching his unruly locks, fingering and unwinding the thick copper strands.
He raised cool eyes to hers, the green fire now curbed. “I swear by Danu, lass, you are going to have this bath with no more bothers by me,” he said, his voice so somber that she burst into giggles.
Dara raised both her hands to her mouth, trying to contain her laughter, but the combined effect of the Irishman’s bewildered expression and her own exhaustion were a bit too much for her to handle. Her body collapsed in the circle of Rowan’s arms.
Rowan groaned, bowing his head to hers. He squeezed her delicate rib cage against his chest, then broke into laughter himself.
“Mo rún, I am a beast.”
“You can sure say that again, Mackey,” she managed, half-choking on her laughter. “And will ya stop cursing me in Irish?”
Her hands sought his skin beneath the silken vest, the last of her laughter spilling into his neck.
“Americans,” he panted as he half-turned to the now serene-looking faucets. Dara would get the bath she’d been craving, nothing extra added.
Well, this one time, at least.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Got any more of this?” Brighid demanded around a mouthful of Irish stew. She helped herself to another thick slice of soda bread, slathering it with a generous amount of salted butter. Within arm’s reach, strong tea exuded soft curls of steam in its earthenware pot.
“You have room for another bite, a wee thing like you?” Fiona glared down at Brighid, hands on her generous hips.
Dara had been staring at Fiona for some time now, wondering whether she was Kanjali or a plain Mortal. Here gaze drifted back to Brighid. Goddess, the petite banshee had a healthy appetite!
Teague was busy offering Brighid enthusiastic comments about the spread of dishes, his honey mane tangled with her fiery one. She seemed quite pleased with his intimate attention. Aislinn sank into the farthest seat at the table, watching the show with silent curiosity. The whole group seemed to be staring, entranced, at the small-sized fairy-menace devouring her dinner.
“This is the best meal I’ve had in centuries!” Brighid announced.
“Right!” A wide smile split Fiona’s rosy face. “Are you for cake, then, dear? A bite of my blueberry pie?”
“Mmmm!” The banshee gave an enthusiastic nod.
As Fiona’s hurried steps faded from the dining room, Rowan leaned against the generously proportioned table, glowering at Brighid. “Didn’t you have enough to eat already?” he growled.
“Oh, you in for some blueberry pie, too?”
“Not hungry.” He leaned back in his chair, his fiery brows drawn to an utterly displeased red line.
Fiona came back and placed a generous portion of blueberry pie beside Brighid before leaving to tend to other business. Teague filled Brighid’s teacup with cream, then poured the deep-colored tea over it.
Aislinn watched them both, openmouthed.
Dara released a long-suffering sigh.
Rowan squeezed his lips even tighter, simmering silently. Tension thickened about him in an almost tangible aura.
Finally, the Sidhe pushed her plates aside and smiled. “Now I’m fit to talk,” she stated.
“Then, talk,” Dara said, smiling sweetly at her.
“Here?” Brighid cast a questioning look at the other occupants of the large dinner table.
“Aye, here and now!” Rowan growled impatiently. “We have nothing to hide from Aislinn and Teague.”
“Right.” Brighid shrugged. “Well, there are a few things you’d better know. First, your Hound and Prince Donn. For now they’re still stuck down Below, but I think they’re waiting for Beltaine night to cross over here. The Veil between the Realms will grow thin then, same as during Samhain, making the passage easy.”
“And Tara holds a Gateway to the Lower Realm, right?” Rowan asked. “When we were still Below, you wanted to take us to some Gateway leading straight to Tara, didn’t you?”
“Aye, you remember right,” Brighid gave a dramatic sigh. “Indeed, there’s a direct Gateway to Lia Fáil in the city of Khree, in Midhe. If Donn makes it there, he’ll use it for sure.”
“’Kay, that’s easy.” Dara shook her head. “All Rowan and I have to do is stay clear of the Hill of Tara on the night of Beltaine.”
“Right.” Brighid opened her mouth and closed it, then burst into laughter.
“Yeah?” Dara glared at her. “Mind sharing the joke?”
“Well,” Brighid gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “Well, ‘tis impossible for the both of you to stay away from Tara on that particular night…since you two will be at it again, only this time against the Stone!”
“We’ll be at it?” Dara echoed, arching her brows.
“Aye,” Teague grinned, breaking in. “She means you and Rowan-boyo here will be doin’ the bold thing. Gettin’ a ride. Fucking like crazy against the—”
“Look, I know what she damn well means.” Dara scrambled up, her chair screeching against the wood planks. “And I already told your Speakers I wouldn’t do it!”
“So, Niamh truly asked you to do it, did she?” Teague’s grin broadened appreciatively. “That oul’ lady, she’s still got juice in her bones!”
“Shut your mouth, Teague!” Rowan was up on his feet as well.
Teague rolled his eyes skywards.
Aislinn shrunk in her chair in a failed attempt to appear invisible.
Brighid leered at them all, sliding a sticky finger against her plate to scoop up any whipped cream remains left there.
Dara and Rowan exchanged embarrassed glances, before slumping back in their seats.
“Niamh told me about Amergin,” Dara finally told Brighid.
“Mmm-huh.” The banshee nodded, sucking on a cream-sweetened finger.
Teague watched her oral manipulation, spellbound.
“You know, Brighid, for someone who is supposed to guard a family, my family, you’re doing a pretty lousy job at it,” Dara snapped, unable to stop herself.
“Och, now that hurt!” Brighid pulled her finger out of her mouth, snapping Teague out of her spell. “Mind saying why you think so?”
“Well, take my parents, for one. And Aidan.” Dara’s cheeks burned and her eyes were beginning to sting. “Oh, and another thing. You’ve turned badgering me into a damned art form!”
“Right, then, let’s get that one over with first.” Brighid returned a calm gaze, counting on her fingers. “I know no rule saying that the family’s guardian spirit can’t badger a family member! Second…truly, I am the Sidhe guarding Amergin’s descendents. Your father was the only one of Amergin’s blood, Dara, your mother and your husband were not under my protection. At some point, I was made to choose… To either save Cuinn O’Shea, or save his daughter. I chose to save your life, Dara.”
An awkward silence fell upon the small group of diners. By now Brighid’s eyes had lost their mischievous twinkle, making everyone else at the table squirm with unease.
“Maybe ‘tis time I told you the full story,” the fairy went on unhurriedly. “Straight from the beginning.”
“Go for it, Brighid,” Dara replied, still shiny-eyed.
“Fine,” Brighid replied, unabashed. “Maybe you asked yourself at times, why did the Kanjali shifters stay upon the Upper Earth when all the rest—the Tuatha dé Danann—escaped down Below? Or why did the Cú—the Hounds—hunt down the Kanjali folk? Or, better yet, who was the one who se
t the ancient Law thousands of years ago, to begin with?”
Dara stared at Brighid, saying nothing. Rowan leaned forward against the table, his expression rapt. Teague was shaking his head as if trying to shake away the throes of a bad dream. Aislinn remained a silent statue, just a bit paler than before.
Brighid’s smile broadened as she spoke. “Well, once upon a time, when the Realms were still young, Danu, the Goddess of the Rivers and the Land, and Bilé, The God of Life and Death, Ruler of the Otherworld and Guardian of the Sacred Oak, were still lovers. ‘Twas from this union that three sons were born, Dagda, Nuada and Dian-Cécht. This was the beginning of the lesser gods, the race of the Tuatha dé Danann.”
“Go on,” urged Rowan.
Brighid sighed. “The Upper Earth belonged then to dé-Danann and to Mortals, and the Lower Earth belonged to fairies and spirits. That was the natural order of things, before all bleedin’ hell broke loose.”
Teague cocked a brow. “I need a pint of Guinness before I listen to any more of this blather,” he muttered.
Brighid ignored the interruption. “See, ‘twas all grand ‘til a fight broke out between Danu and Bilé. These two weren’t exactly faithful to each other. Bilé had lain with others, and sired Miled—aye, the same King Miled of Spain. Danu took her own sons, Dagda and Dian-Cécht, for lovers, giving birth to more sons and daughters of the dé-Danann bloodline.”
“Goddess, this is becoming quite the soap opera!” Dara exclaimed, dropping her face into her hands. Her head was pounding with a blossoming migraine. She had never suffered from migraines before meeting Brighid or Rowan—come to think of it, before this entire farce had started!
“The truth is far worse than any soap opera, eh?” Brighid appeared smug, eyes twinkling with mirth.
Rowan uttered a colorful curse.
