by Laura Parker
“We must live in the times in which we are placed, Dee,” he said quietly. “Will you live here with me?”
Deirdre looked into his face and knew what he asked. Theirs would not be an easy life or a tranquil one, but if they chose, they could live it out here, together.
“I hear there are laws forbidding a Catholic son from inheriting land from his father. What shall become of Liscarrol once we are gone?”
Killian grinned at her. “Well now, I’ve plans to become an old, old gentleman farmer with a herd of great-grandsons running me mad in me later years. By then, the laws may have changed.”
“’Tis devoutly to be hoped!” Deirdre answered.
Killian caught her to him and held her tightly. “I swear you’ll have no regrets on my account!”
“’Tis well enough, my love, for there are certain to be regrets over other affairs.” When Killian looked down at her in surprise, she smiled. “I had a talk with Fey some weeks back about men and loving. She’s loved you from the beginning, you know.” He nodded. “Well, I told her she could not have you and suggested that she might find someone else, but I did not expect she’d take my advice so quickly to heart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you not notice that Fey waited to show herself the night O’Donovan threatened to hand you over the English? She did not come to your aid or mine.”
“She acted quickly enough when Enan took O’Donovan’s shot,” Killian replied. “Och! You do not mean—!”
Deirdre nodded. “Fey’s in love.”
“But she’s just a wee lass…”
Deirdre’s expression softened with a knowing womanly smile. “Lassie’s grow up.”
“Indeed they do, mo cuishle,” Killian said, gathering his lady wife into his arms again.
GLOSSARY
Abu—Boy; “our boy.”
Acushla—Little darling.
Alanna—Child.
Amadan—Male fool.
Asthore—My beloved.
Aulaun—Lout.
Bad cess—Bad luck.
Bainne—Milk.
Bainnicin—Irish spurge: yellow-green plant with corrosive juice. Used by unscrupulous poachers to poison the water to “catch” fish.
Beanfeasa—Wise woman.
Bean sidhe—Woman of the otherworld; fairy woman.
Bete farouche—(F.)—Savage beast.
Bodach—Clown.
Booleying—Pasturing cattle or sheep in the hills in the summer months.
Bosthoon—Blockhead.
Bouchat—Boy.
Cabaiste Scotch—Stew of cabbage hearts, onions, and sour cream.
Cailin deas—Pretty girl (colleen dhas).
Ceanabhan—Blossom of the bog.
Daoine sidhe—Fairy people.
Deeshy—Small.
Didean—Aid, shelter.
Dilse—Love.
Fain or Fainne—Legendary warriors of ancient Ireland.
Faolan—First name meaning wolf.
Geersha—Girl.
Gom!—Exclamation.
Gommach—Fool.
Kippeen—Cudgel or stick.
Loodeen—The small toe.
Lushmore—Nickname of foxglove blossoms, deep pink.
Mac mallachtan!—“Son of a curse!” Wicked person.
Macushla—“My darling.”
Madilse—“My love.”
Ma girsha—“My girl.”
Mavrone!—“My goodness!” (exclamation).
Mille murdher!—“A thousand murders!” (Exclamation of surprise or indignation.)
Mo cuishle—“My darling.”
Mo stor gal—“My bright star.”
Musha—“In truth!”
Ochone—“My goodness”; “oh dear.”
Oinseach—Female fool.
Pogue—Kiss.
Pothogue—A blow.
Raumach—“Rubbish!” (exclamation).
Rapparee—Irregular soldier, guerrilla fighter.
Samain—Irish name for moon; Hallowsday, November 1.
Sidhe—Fairyhost.
Skean—Irish dagger.
Slainte—“Health!” Irish toast.
Slaucan—Sloke: seaweed favored by Spanish as edible treat; part of smuggled cargo.
Sfee—Mountain.
Spalpeen—Rascal.
Sthronsuch—“Lazy thing!”
“The Sons of Aislui”—Ancient folktale made famous by Yeats’s “Deirdre of the Sorrows.”
The Wild Geese—Name given to the thousands of Irish soldiers who left their homeland to fight in the armies of the Catholic countries of Europe in seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Wirra—“Oh!”
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NOW FOR SALE
Excerpt from Rose of the Mists: Book One of the “Rose” Trilogy
The slender arms that came around him from behind seemed a miracle of grace and benediction to his harried thoughts. The world ceased to exist outside the circle of her arms. “My love, take pity,” he whispered hoarsely.
Meghan rested her brow in the valley between his shoulder blades, her hands splaying over the flat expanse of his abdomen. My love! He had called her his love. He loved her. She felt the rapid rise and fall of his breathing under her hands and it comforted her to know that he was as moved as she. One hand moved up over the wide contours of his chest while the other descended, reaching lower until she found him.
“Mercy’s Grace!” Revelin shut his eyes and arched his back, involuntarily pressing himself into her hand. Her second hand joined the first and she cradled him.
He felt alive, like a dove, warm and throbbing. “Did ye always feel so?” she questioned in a serious voice.
“Always feel…what?”
Meghan considered this as her fingers searched his clothing for the placket that would allow her entrance. “Ye’re like a bull. The sheathing does not tell the whole of it.”
Revelin felt the rumble of laughter first in his belly, the immoderate kind of guffaw that was part amusement and part guilty shame. When he loosed it, the explosion startled the night, set the stillness crackling with human warmth and reality.
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RELEASE DATE: JANUARY 2013
Excerpt from The Secret Rose: Book Three of the “Rose” Trilogy
His breath brushed her face and Aisleen’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, you have been drinking.”
“Aye, that I have,” Thomas agreed pleasantly, “and never had a man a better reason than in the celebrating of his wedding day.”
“I do not approve of drinking spirits,” Aisleen maintained as his fingers worried the lace of her nightcap.
“Ah, well, that may be because ye’ve never drunk them yerself, lass. It would nae come a miss, a wee drop every now and then.” He bent forward to get a better view of her. “Are you happy, lass?”
“Happy?” Aisleen whispered faintly, keenly aware of the intimate pressure of his chest against her breasts as she lay under the covers.
“Aye. I’m a happy man. I’ve everything I need. I would that ye were happy, but I hear in yer voice a sadness that I cannot understand.” Hs fingers moved to the curve of her jaw. “I can make ye happy. I know a way to make ye smile.”
Once moment he was leaning over her, his boyish grin a pearly gleam I the darkness. The next, Aisleen felt with stunning surprise the warm pressure of his lips agaist her own.
A moan of pleasure escaped as he plunged his tongue again and again into her open unresisting mouth. This was the sweet torment, the lick and stroke of passion-fed kisses soothing away the last of her doubts.
She was on fire everywhere his lips touched…her lips…her shoulders…her breasts.
She whimpered as he caught the crest of her breast between his lips. This miraculous feeling, this dry suckling, not him but the liquid tension that ran in an ever-rushing surf from her breast to the secret sea-tide rising in her lower belly.
“Aye, touch me there. ’Tis a fine feeling, yer hand on me, colleen dhas,” s
he heard him encourage with the careless charm he wielded with such assuredness.
His hands were on her back, sliding down over her hips to lift her up against him. One hand moved even lower, over the curve of her buttocks, dipping into the narrow canyon below. Fingers spread, parting her legs, and then he was delving once more into her wet warmth. And she did not try to stop him. Did nothing. No, did more than nothing. She sighed in guilty pleasure and joy and desire, wanting…wanting…wanting more.
