A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  Connor nodded, encouraging him to go on. He knew most crooks had a burning desire to explain their cleverness. If Connor could get Neil to talk about himself, maybe the man would relax enough to loosen his hold on the shoehorn.

  “I know this film will be a blockbuster,” Neil continued, “if only I can get backing. But it’s too expensive because of the massive special effects involved.” He shrugged, grinning. “So I figured if I could control real magic, I wouldn’t need special effects—or backing.”

  Neil’s grip relaxed for a moment and Connor tensed, prepared to spring when the chance presented itself. Unfortunately Neil recalled the situation and tightened his grip on P.J. “Okay, I told you. Now how do I key it?”

  “First, let P.J. go.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not falling for that. Tell me first, and we’ll test it, then I’ll let her go.”

  Well, it had been worth a try, though Connor hadn’t expected it to work. He sighed. Damn the shoehorn! The only thing that was important was P.J. No more games. “All right, the truth. You can’t use it—you have to have magic of your own to be able to key it to yourself. It’ll never work for you.”

  Neil’s face was suffused with a red wash of anger. He pulled the hammer back on the gun and shoved it harder against P.J.’s temple. “I don’t believe you. Now tell the truth.”

  Connor stood helplessly, not knowing what to do. How could he convince Neil he had told the truth?

  Connor’s gaze sought P.J.’s. Her eyes were filled with a resigned acknowledgment of her fate. She knew he wasn’t lying and that her remaining life was measured in seconds. Connor froze in fear, not knowing what to do.

  P.J. moistened her lips. “He is telling the truth,” she assured Neil, her voice cracking with fear.

  “Shut up,” Neil growled, and turned impatiently back to Connor. It was obvious the man was on the edge and it wouldn’t take much to push him over.

  Connor glanced helplessly at P.J., wishing he could take her into his arms just once more. “I’m sorry, P.J.,” he said, knowing it was totally inadequate to express how he felt.

  Her heart showing in her tear-filled eyes, P.J. swallowed hard. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “It’s not P.J…it’s Petunia. Petunia Jonquil.”

  Petunia Jonquil? The absurdity of her name, coupled with the stressful situation, bubbled up inside him, forcing out a semihysterical chuckle. He couldn’t help it—he doubled over and howled with laughter.

  The exasperation on his Petunia’s face and the shock on Neil’s only sent Connor into further paroxysms.

  Luckily P.J. wasn’t so helpless. Taking swift advantage of Neil’s suddenly loosened grip, she knocked the shoehorn out of his hand. “Connor, here!” she yelled.

  The shoehorn skittered across the floor to land at Connor’s feet. He snatched it up and sobered quickly. Now that he was armored with the knowledge of P.J.’s name and Stayle’s shoehorn, Neil was one dead thief.

  P.J. jammed her elbow into Neil’s stomach and ducked out of the way as Connor slammed Neil’s gun hand against the wall and slugged him with all the pent-up force of his frustration. Disappointingly, Neil crumpled at the first blow.

  Connor stood over him in frustrated rage, then with a wave of his hand he pronounced Neil’s full name and sent him to a cold dark cell to await his fate.

  Only then did he turn to P.J. and gather her into his arms. They clung to each other and he covered her upturned face with a dozen tiny kisses. “Dear God, I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever do that to me again!”

  P.J. shuddered in his arms and nodded. “Never again, I promise.” They just stood there, holding each other for a few more moments as they took a welldeserved breather. “I changed my mind,” P.J. muttered. “I don’t want to stay here after all. I just want to go home, but I’m so tired I don’t think I’ll be able to make it down that mountain again.”

  Connor kissed the top of her head. “That’s not necessary now, now that I know your name…Petunia.” Finally, when he’d thought all was lost, she’d trusted him with her true name. He’d never been given a better gift.

  P.J. shot him a wary glance. “Forget you ever heard that, okay?”

  Connor laughed and hugged her. “All right, lass.”

  Then, between one breath and the next, he transferred them and all their belongings to the workroom of Stayle’s shop.

  P.J. looked around in astonishment, but now Connor’s eyes were all for his patient sister who had waited so long for her talisman.

  Stayle jumped in alarm at their sudden appearance, but Connor merely held up the shoehorn. Stayle’s eyes widened, and he could see the cares and sorrows of the past few weeks fall away like magic as she shrieked with joy and came charging across the room to grab the talisman and throw her arms around his neck. “Ah, Connor, me lad, I knew ye could do it!”

  Connor glanced at P.J., who had considerately turned aside to let the siblings celebrate their good fortune. “Aye, but I didn’t do it alone, y’know. P.J. helped.”

  He reached out and drew P.J. to him, gazing down into the eyes of the woman who had saved their lives. Nothing could ever repay that, except, perhaps, devoting his life to her. “I want her to be my wife.”

  He was rewarded by the shock and joy in P.J.’s face as she registered what he said.

  “No!” Stayle exclaimed. “Connor, ye can’t! She’s a mortal. What about your position?”

  “The Fae owe her, Stayle. I owe her, and it’s my duty to see the debt’s paid. If they can’t accept that, then I’m afraid they’ll not be having me as their leader anymore.”

  Stayle shook her head in sorrow. “They’ll not countenance their leader having a mortal wife, ye know that. You’ll lose your position for certain. What about your dreams, Connor? Your plans for rebuilding the Fae? What about that?”

  It was the toughest decision in his life, but he’d made it in an instant, knowing instinctively it was the right thing to do—the only thing to do. “Someone else can do the same, following my plan,” he said, knowing it wouldn’t work. It was his plan, his vision, his task. No one else could or would follow through on his personal vision.

  But that didn’t matter now. He’d made his decision and he’d stick to it. Resolutely, he turned away from his sister and looked down into P.J.’s beautiful dark eyes. “‘Sure and this isn’t blarney, for what I say is true—the luck of the Irish was with me the day that I met you.’ P.J., will you marry me?”

  P.J. looked back at him, and he knew then he’d always remember her as she was at that moment, staring up at him with hope and love and utter delight.

  A flicker of a strange emotion crossed her face, shuttering her gaze. “Oh, Connor, no. I can’t.”

  Connor felt as if he’d been slugged by a troll. “No?”

  P.J. glanced at Stayle, who was keeping her mouth shut for a change, letting them work it out. “No,” P.J. repeated. “I know how good you are for your people—your first duty is to them. I can’t share that with you, and I can’t take it away from you.”

  “But-”

  “No, Connor.” She pulled away and stared at him dolefully. “Your sister’s right. Your people need you, and I’d never forgive myself if I took you away from them. Besides, obligation is no reason to marry.” She turned to gather up her things. “I’d better go home.”

  That stubborn look on her face told him the question was closed—he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her now. “All right, P.J., we’ll do it your way. But at least give me something to remember you by.” He took her into his arms and gave her one last, hard kiss.

  Unable to offer her anything else, Connor did the only thing he could. “Goodbye, Petunia Jonquil Sheridan,” he whispered, and sent her home with a surge of power.

  Behind Connor, Stayle sighed gustily. “Ye did the right thing, Connor.”

  Connor turned on her. “The right thing! How can you say that?”

  “‘Tis best for the Fae, ye know that. And ‘tis best for you, as well. She
’s right, y’know. Obligation is no reason to marry, not if ye don’t love her.”

  “But I do love her!” Connor realized with a blinding flash of insight that it was true. He’d nearly lost P.J. up on that mountain and he didn’t ever want to face that again. He loved her, and his life would be lonely and bleak without her. “I do love her,” he repeated with more conviction.

  Stayle looked skeptical. “Are ye sure about that? She’s mortal—not our kind.”

  “I don’t care if she’s half elephant! She’s good and honest and true—regardless of whether she has magic or no. She’s the most important thing in my life, Stayle. I love her, and I’m going to tell her so.”

  Without his Petunia, life would be flat, boring, desolate—almost as bad as that moment when he’d been sure she was going to die, the gun pressed up against her temple and the shoehorn against her throat.

  The shoehorn against her throat? Wait a minute…

  Stayle’s voice interrupted his musings. “Tell her.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Stayle looked exasperated. “Then go to her now and tell her so.”

  His incredulity must have showed on his face, for Stayle chuckled and added, “If ye love her, then that’s a different story altogether.” Her voice softened. “Ye need to follow your heart, Connor me lad.”

  “But she refused me—you heard her.”

  “Aye, but only because she thought it was best for you and our people. I’ll back ye with the Fae. They’ll understand, and if they don’t, they’ll not be worthy of havin’ you as their leader.” Stayle placed her hand on his arm. “Go to her, Connor. She loves you, too, y’know—I saw it in her eyes.”

  He swept her up in a huge bear hug. “Stayle, you’re splendid!”

  “I know, I know. But let go of me now, ye big oaf, before ye crack me ribs.”

  He let go of her as requested and she reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t mess it up now, hear?”

  Connor chuckled. “Nay, this time I won’t, but there are two things I need first.”

  P.J. CLUTCHED THIN AIR as she grasped the space where Connor had been only a moment before. She glanced around in surprise. He’d sent her back to her own bedroom.

  P.J. flopped onto her bed and punched the pillow. Damn the man—he hadn’t followed the script! He was supposed to plead with her, beg her to be his wife, then assure her he loved her and she wouldn’t be ruining the lives of his people.

  Oh sure, she’d meant every word when she refused him, but she could have been persuaded.

  It was too late now, and she was filled with the numbing realization that he hadn’t cared enough to try to change her mind. Instead he’d flicked her home as if she meant absolutely nothing to him.

  Bitterly, P.J. remembered Madame Cherelle’s prediction. She’d said that at the moment of P.J.’s greatest terror, she had only to make the right decision and she’d have her greatest joy. Well, she’d made the right decision—she’d told Connor her real name. She’d even given him up for the good of his people. So where was the bliss she’d been promised?

  “Lass?” came a low voice behind her.

  P.J. dashed the tears out of her eyes and turned to stare behind her. “Connor?” Was it really him?

  He reached down to pull her up off the bed. “The O’Flahertys don’t give up that easily, y’know.”

  “No?” She hated the quaver in her voice, but she couldn’t help it.

  “No. I’ve come to ask you to be my wife—and I won’t take no for an answer this time.”

  Her heart soared. He did care! But she steeled her heart against him—she couldn’t let him sacrifice everything he’d worked toward. “You’ll have to. You heard what Stayle said. Your people would never forgive you, or me.”

  “Stayle’s changed her mind,” Connor said in a soft voice.

  “She has?” P.J. said incredulously. “Why?”

  “She knows I need you, P.J.”

  It was P.J.’s turn to inhale sharply. “What do you mean? You have magic…you are magic. Why would you need me?” Her heart thumped in her rib cage like a wild thing as she waited for his answer.

  Connor stroked her cheek and gave her a lazy smile that made her stomach do flip-flops. “I need you to keep my sanity. I need you to laugh with, to love with, to share in good times and bad.” He tilted her chin up with his finger. “I need you to have my children. I need you to be my wife. Will you marry me?”

  “But your people—”

  Connor shook his head. “They’ll understand, or they’ll have to elect another leader. Say yes, P.J.”

  “But you don’t even know my family—”

  “I’m sure I’ll love them, too. Say yes, P.J.”

  “But—”

  Connor pulled her into his arms and kissed her, silencing her protest. “All that matters is that I love you, lass. Do you love me?”

  P.J. nodded dumbly.

  Connor grinned in triumph. “Then say yes, P.J.”

  P.J. glanced around helplessly. You idiot, she admonished herself. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Say yes, P.J.

  She threw her arms around him. “Yes. Oh, yes!”

  Connor whooped and spun her around as if she were a child. He kissed her fiercely, then let go.

  “Now there’s one more thing I need to know,” he said, and pulled Stayle’s shoehorn out of his pocket.

  Bewildered, P.J. said, “What?”

  “Give me your hand, lass.”

  P.J. did as he asked and watched as he placed the talisman in the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes, murmured a few words in Gaelic, then opened his eyes and grinned.

  P.J. stared around herself in wonder. She was surrounded by a field of glittering gold stardust that tinged everything with a hint of magic. She reached out to touch it, but drew back as it faded from view.

  She glanced questioningly at Connor and he grinned. “‘Twould seem you’ve faerie blood in your veins, after all—the aura proves it.”

  She felt as if she’d been hit by a Mack truck. She was one of the Fae? As Connor stood there grinning, P.J. struggled to take it all in.

  “Remember when Neil held the gun to your head and the shoehorn to your throat?”

  P.J. shuddered. She preferred not to think about it. “Yes, how could I forget?”

  “Well, after you turned me down—” he gave her a mock-disparaging glare “—I remembered you didn’t have a rash on your neck from the gold, like you should have.”

  P.J. nodded slowly, feeling her neck. “That’s right. I should have, but I never even noticed.”

  “Well, that’s when I remembered what Madame Cherelle said about your malady.”

  “What malady?”

  “Well, the only one I knew of was your allergy to gold. Something has been niggling at my mind ever since I met you, and I finally remembered what it was—faerie folk who don’t believe in magic develop an allergic reaction to their talisman material.”

  “And when I finally started believing again…”

  “Then you lost your allergy, I’ll be bettin’.”

  P.J. trembled with excitement. “Do I really have faerie blood?”

  Connor reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “I made a bet with myself that you did. Here, this is for you.”

  P.J. opened the box and stared in wonder at the ring nestled there—a gorgeous sparkling square-cut emerald, flanked on either side by the shield of the O’Flaherty clan. She gasped. “It’s beautiful.”

  He took the box gently from her and slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. “As are you, lass. ‘Tis gold, y’know.”

  P.J. twisted the ring and admired it. “It’s gold,” she marveled. “And I don’t feel a thing. No insane desire to scratch, no itch, no rash. It’s wonderful. How did you know?” Connor grinned. “I didn’t. I only hoped that’s what your allergy meant. But it’s true, you are one of us.”

  She was really one of the Fae? Then that meant�
�she could work magic, too! “What sort of magic do I have, then?”

  “The traits are normally hereditary. Let’s see.” He pressed the shoehorn to her palm again and concentrated as the gold mist coalesced around them once more. “Your father is a leprechaun like me, and your mother is a…pillywiggins.”

  Suddenly he threw his head back and roared.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He hugged her, continuing to chuckle. “Your mother named you better than she knew. You’re half leprechaun, and half flower faerie…Petunia.”

  She smiled back at him and sighed with happiness when his eyes darkened and he lowered his head, claiming her lips with his.

  Her love soared, expanding in ever-widening circles of bliss as the stardust danced around them in a million twinkling points of light, bathing them in the golden glow of their love.

  Epilogue

  P.J. continued her circuit of the reception hall, her arm tucked securely in her husband’s arm. This was her wedding day and she’d never been so happy.

  The ceremony, held on the small wooden bridge in Vail where they’d first kissed, had been absolutely beautiful. Wanting to give her the wondrous holiday magic she’d lost many years before, Connor had insisted they marry on Christmas day. The joy of the holiday season and the balmy weather, courtesy of faerie magic, had made it a day to remember.

  They’d decided against a formal reception line, preferring to wander about the room and greet their guests individually. Connor linked her fingers with his and eyed the laughing crowd, nodding at one peculiar pairing, whispering, “Who would have thought you’d see those two together?”

  Madame Cherelle and Steadman Jarvis stood chatting next to the punch as if they were the best of friends. P.J. chuckled. “I know, and who would have thought Stayle’s shoes would have reformed the man so completely? He’s become a model citizen and made a mint in the bargain.”

  Dancers swirled about the room and P.J.’s gaze softened as Patrick Shaughnessy and his wife waltzed by, cheek to cheek, obviously still in love. “I hope we’ll be like them in twenty years.”