She turned toward Howth, planning to stop for takeout somewhere along the way. Curling up on the couch with her books on Irish history and mythology sounded good. She’d learn as much as she could about the Tuatha Dé Danann, Fionn MacCumhaill and his Fianna. Couldn’t hurt, and it might help in leading her boastful ghost to the light—if she ever saw him again.
Crouched upon a patch of grass, Fáelán peered at his reflection in the onyx bowl of clear water and pulled the triple-blade, plastic-handled razor down his cheek. Next time he was free to walk the earthly realm, he’d find a wee mirror to bring back to his island. Unless the coming solstice brought an end to his curse, in which case he’d have no need. He’d smashed his last mirror against a tree whilst in a fit of gut-wrenching loneliness . . . and frustration.
Regan. Mo a míorúilt, his miracle. He grinned . . . and nicked himself with the modern razor. “Feck.”
Dabbing at the cut with a bit of rag, he glanced at the sun to judge the hour. The sun, moon and stars were the same in the void as they were in the earthly realm. He’d spent hours puzzling over that fact. If the sun, moon and constellations were the same, it must mean the realms existed side by side. He was home, yet separated by . . . what?
He’d heard the border referred to as a veil oft enough. If ’twas a veil, he ought to be able to move it aside. The opposing forces between the realms felt nothing like a veil to him, so what was the force dividing one place from the next?
And here his pondering faltered. If he could figure out how the realms remained separate, or how they merged during a solstice or an equinox, he should be able to discover how to cross through whenever he chose. The fae did, so there had to be a way.
He finished shaving and bathed quickly in the lake. Swiping water from his skin, he walked to the clearing where he kept his few possessions, including his clothing. A wooden tray holding his breakfast sat upon the flat top of a boulder in the center of his camp. All his meals appeared in that same spot.
Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the servant bringing his food to him, but he or she never tarried and never spoke. The servant sometimes glanced curiously his way but always disappeared the moment Fáelán tried to talk to him or her, which left him feeling like some kind of curiosity kept in a cage. Damned fae.
The warm air dried his skin while he ate the bread, cheese and fruit. As always, the tray held two goblets. One filled with fae wine and the other pure water. He chose the water. Fae wine was far stronger than that of mortals. “I’ll be wantin’ a clear head,” he murmured to himself. “I’ve a—” He shut his mouth before the words a woman to fall madly in love with slipped out. After being alone for so very long, he’d gotten into the habit of talking to himself. ’Twould not serve him well to do so now.
If Morrigan still spied on him, he didn’t want to give her the merest hint Regan existed. Besides, best not call the fae princess’s attention to him in any way, lest her interest in him rekindle.
His nerves overwrought, Fáelán dressed and glanced at the sun for the fiftieth time. Would Regan welcome his presence, or would she turn him away? Aye, she’d been friendly enough the morning they’d met, but she’d also believed him naught but a fecking scáil. She’d had two days to think things over, and he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to have aught to do with a ghost himself. I’ve helped many like you, she’d said. He grunted. She helped ghosts? To do what? Haunt?
“I’m no scáil.” Ah, but he was trapped like a fly under a bowl. His gut tightened, and the familiar mix of rage and frustration within him fomented into a nasty brew. He couldn’t take Regan’s hand in his, treat her to a fine meal or take her dancing like the men of today did when courting a woman. What would others think when they caught a glimpse of her talking to empty air? Damn you, Morrigan.
Years of training rose to the fore, and he set aside his rage. Focusing upon Regan’s dwelling, he willed himself there. She had to know he couldn’t knock on her door, and she’d be watching for him. The familiar whoosh and the odd sensation of everything rushing past propelled him to the very edge of the void, where the realms bumped against each other. Here the borders held firm, barring him from crossing.
Drawing a breath for courage, he pretended to lean—casually, mind—against Regan’s car, cushioned by the opposing forces between the dimensions. He hoped like hell she’d grace him with her lovely presence once again.
Her front door opened. Regan appeared, and his knees nearly buckled with relief at her welcoming smile. He had one chance, one woman who saw him, and so much hinged upon her willingness to spend time with him. How could he not be a wreck? All the air in his lungs deserted him, and his heart leaped like a startled hind. Straightening, he did his best to smile back.
“Tá an aimsir go hálainn,” she called, her tone filled with pride.
He laughed. “Someone’s been practicin’ their Irish. Aye, ’tis a beautiful day indeed. Even more so now that I’ve caught sight of ye, Álainn.”
“Smooth,” she said, coming to stand before him.
Wild roses could not compare to the bloom of color upon her cheeks at his praise. Had any woman’s eyes ever sparkled thus? The morning sun brought a sheen to her hair, and her smile filled him as if she’d poured warmth and light into the darkest recesses of his deepest loneliness. Transfixed, he stared . . . barely breathing, lest she prove naught but a vision he’d conjured for himself. If he breathed, she might vanish like a wisp of wood smoke caught in a sea breeze.
“You OK, Fáelán?” A crease formed between her delicate brows.
“Aye, I’m fine.” Heat rose to his face. He’d been staring at her like a green laddie who’d just experienced the first stirrings of desire for a woman. “Why would I not be?”
She studied him. “No reason.”
“Where do ye wish to go today?”
“Kilkenny,” she said, opening her car door and climbing in. “I want to tour the castle, and there are buildings across the street that have been turned to shops and studios for local crafters. I’d love to see weavers, potters and jewelers at work.” She climbed into her car.
He settled into the seat beside hers. “Hmm.”
“What?” She slid a sideways glance at him, her brow raised in question.
“Shopping,” he grumbled. Regan’s burst of musical laughter brought forth an answering smile he could no more control than he could the cycles of the moon. “’Tis interesting, is it not? In all the centuries I’ve lived, the one thing women today have in common with women of the distant past is a love of shopping. How is it that a female can spend hours poring over goods she does not need? A man will go directly to the source for what he needs, buy it and be done.” He shook his head. “Not so with a woman.”
“That is such a stereotype, but I’ll let it go this time.” She fiddled with the GPS attached to the windshield until it spoke directions. “While I shop, you can hang out in the castle where they keep the weapons and armor.”
“Thank the gods, both old and new, armor didn’t exist until long after the Fianna were no more,” he muttered. “Give me boiled leather over steel armor anytime. Damned uncomfortable, heavy, hot and restrictive, I’d imagine.”
“Speaking of the Fianna, I’ve been doing research.” She flashed him a probing look before pulling her car away from the curb. “Did you really have to run barefoot, and remove a thorn from your foot without breaking stride?”
“Aye, whilst runnin’ full out, I might add.”
“I also read that to be ordained into the Fianna, a man had to bind his hair and run miles through a forest. Afterward, if any of his hair had come loose, he was disqualified. Is that true?”
“’Tis true. Did I not tell you I had to pass many feats of skill, strength and cunning to be found worthy?” His chest puffed up with pride, hoping to bask in her admiration.
“What’s the big deal with hair?” Regan glanced at him for a second. “If I were a man who wanted to join the Fianna, and I’d heard about that test, I’
d shave my head. Done. Problem solved.”
Not even a hint of admiration shone in her eyes, and disappointment galled him. What would it take to impress his fated one? “The test had naught to with hair, Regan.” Ah, well, despite her lack of proper appreciation, he couldn’t help but be pleased that she’d gone to the trouble of learning about the Fianna. Did that mean she was interested in him? His heart tumbled over itself. What would he give to be able to reach out and touch her cheek right now? He curled his hands into loose fists and turned his attention to the passing landscape.
“The hair binding had to do with attention to detail, to performing an assigned task with great care. Carelessness in battle leads to death, yours and your brother’s.”
“I see.” She nodded. “The Fianna were like the special forces of today.”
“Nay.” He huffed out a derisive snort. “We were far better, tougher and more canny. I’m assuming you read all of the trials a man had to pass to be counted among the elite, aye?”
“Yes, and I have more questions, but they can wait.” She frowned and shifted in her seat. “I found your armband at the museum, Fáelán.”
His chest tightened, and regret stole his breath. “My da had the set made for me when I gained acceptance into Fionn’s army. The armband and this piece as well,” he said, touching the brooch fastening his cloak. “He said if ever I found myself in desperate straits, I’d have something to barter for what I might need. Or if I found someone else in difficulty, I could cut off a portion of the gold to offer in charity.”
His da had been both proud and grieved by Fáelán’s acceptance into Fionn’s army. He had but one living son, having lost the other two to childhood fevers. His da hadn’t wanted to lose Fáelán to war.
“I read that the Fianna were recruited from those in the upper echelon of society—princes, young men related to royalty, sons of chieftains, that sort of thing.” She cast him a shy look. “Which were you?”
“Were?” He grunted and fixed her with a scolding look. “Ye mean are, lassie. I am not dead, but cursed. I am the son of the chieftain of our entire clan, who was once a Fiann himself.”
“Fáelán, it’s been how many years now?” she asked, her tone chiding. “In all that time, haven’t you ever caught a glimpse of a glowing light that seemed to beckon to you? As much as you want to believe you’re cursed and not—”
“Soon enough ye’ll learn the truth.” Damn, but Regan possessed a most vexing stubborn streak. In his day, women had fawned over him, hung on every word he spoke and never accused him of lying. The Fianna never spoke falsehoods. “The summer solstice approaches, aye?”
“June twenty-first, a few weeks away.”
“On nineteen June, I will once again bide in the earthly realm.” He held up one hand and counted off the days. “For five entire days and nights, I shall be back where I belong. Then ye shall eat your words, oh doubting one.”
“Shall I?” She laughed.
“Ye shall.” Uncertainty rose like an ocean wave, swamping his hopes. His mouth went dry, and he tensed. What if Regan quit him afore then? “Will ye spend those five days with me, Álainn?” And the nights? Especially the nights.
She slanted him a pointed look. “So you can fall desperately in love with me and end the curse?”
“Exactly.”
“Sure.” Smugness suffused her features. “Why not?”
“Stubborn as stone, ye are, and don’t think I’m not knowin’ ye think me cracked.” It might not be as easy to fall in love with her as he’d hoped. He growled low in his throat for good measure, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. But then her laughter spilled over him again, and despite how much she vexed him, his mood brightened.
“Tell me about yourself, lassie. How do ye earn your keep? What of your family?”
“I have a mother, father, two sets of grandparents, an extended family and two younger sisters who happen to be identical twins.” She entered a roundabout and turned onto the ramp for the freeway leading south.
“As for how I earn my keep, the year I graduated from college, the owner of the yoga studio where I’d been working part time decided to retire. I offered to take over managing the place, and I made a deal to buy her out within twenty-four months. Once I owned that studio, and it was doing well, I opened another about forty miles away.” She glanced at him. “The second was located in a touristy area in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. I opened the third a year later in a popular vacation spot, also in the mountains.”
“Ye’ve accomplished much for one so young.” He barely knew her, and yet pride in her swelled his chest. That must be a good sign. Fionn would be pleased one of his warriors had found such an industrious woman. Every indication proved her to be virtuous and kindhearted as well. After all, she’d helped many like him, had she not? “And the teaching of this yoga does well for you?”
“It did, but managing three studios got to be too much. I was looking for an assistant manager to hire, and I had plans to open more, but then I was approached by a corporation wanting to buy me out. The offer was good, so I accepted. Selling has given me a little breathing room, and it’s made this trip possible.”
Though she smiled, her eyes hinted at an uncertainty lurking beneath the surface. “And the purpose of this trip?” His fated one’s expression closed at the question, sharpening his curiosity. Clearly, Regan intended to share only a wee bit of truth regarding her motives.
She shrugged. “I told you, this is the land of my forebears, and I want to do a little genealogy search. My great-grandparents on my father’s side were both MacCarthys, though not related, other than being married.” Another quick glance his way. “Do you see ghosts?”
Change the subject, would she? Regan was easy to read. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Eventually he’d get to the bottom of what troubled her. “Nay, and ’tis glad I am that I do not. Only those who have a touch of fae blood have the sight.”
“That’s what my grandmother says too.” Regan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “If you can’t see ghosts, why were you at Newgrange? What drew you there?”
’Til blood of sidhe in a mortal will tell. Aye, his lassie carried a trace of fae blood, and ’twas the gift of sight that troubled her. ’Twould vex him as well to carry such a burden. “If I tell ye why I’m drawn to Brú Na Bóinne, ye’ll think me even more cracked than ye already do.” He stared ahead and held his breath, awaiting her response.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Regan said, her tone gently teasing.
He barked out a laugh. “Nay? Well then . . .” Gathering his thoughts, he closed his eyes for a moment, gaining mastery over his grief and the ensuing helpless frustration. “I was already cursed when Fionn MacCumhaill, the leader of the Fianna, is said to have fallen in battle,” he began. “Many say he did not die that day, but that he lives yet and is hiding in a cave somewhere along the River Boyne. ’Tis said there are others with him in that cave.” Fáelán stole a glance at Regan before continuing. “I oft visit that hill in the hopes I might encounter one of my brethren there, or Fionn himself.”
“Oh, Fáelán. That must be painful for you.”
“Hmm.” He crossed his arms in front of him again. “Ye think me cracked.”
“No. I think you’re grieving for what has been lost to you, and I’m sorry for that loss, but—”
“If you realized I’m not dead, but cursed, ye’d see things differently. ’Tis only logical that if I exist in the void realm, then there must be others like me who also dwell there. Fionn is part fae himself. Wouldn’t his fae kin have intervened on his behalf when he was mortally wounded?” He waved a hand in the air. “Wouldn’t they whisk him away from the battlefield then? The Tuatha have the means to heal mortal wounds, they do. They possess this magical bit of hide that—”
“It’s all a myth, Fáelán. I mean, I know faeries existed once upon a time, long, long ago, but couldn’t they have always lived here? Maybe they
were the ancient indigenous people of Ireland, and they just happened to have special abilities. All the stuff about how the Tuatha Dé Danann came to Ireland in a ship sailing in the clouds could be nothing more than a tale they concocted to set themselves apart.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not dissimilar from the Dakota mythology. They claim to have come to earth from the Pleiades constellation. The cauldron of Dagda, the spear of Lugh, the singing stone and the magic swords . . . and finally, the piece of hide that heals all mortal wounds . . . it’s all make-believe. You know, don’t you, the Celts were not the only culture to come up with the idea of a healing hide. The Greeks had their golden fleece with the same miraculous powers.”
She flashed him a pitying look. “You’ve been around for centuries, and you have to have been exposed to some science and history. All ancient cultures created mystical, aggrandized stories about who they were and where they came from, but that doesn’t mean the stories are true. Isn’t it possible that, somewhere along the way, you bought into the mythology, using it to weave a tale to explain—”
“Enough.” Her dismissive assumptions nearly choked him. Fall in love with Regan MacCarthy? Impossible. She’d insulted him in the worst possible way, accusing him of deluding himself with faerie tales as if he were a laddie of but a handful of winters. Cursing his fate, he was sorely tempted to return to his island to wait a hundred years or so afore seeking out another woman who might see him. “Ye are the one who clings to illusion. Not I.”
Feck. That had come out all wrong, making him sound like a petulant child—proving her right. His jaw clamped shut. He refused to utter another word, but he didn’t take his leave of her either.
Chapter Three
Regan had done it this time. Her words had wounded her boasty ghosty, and judging by the way he’d snapped at her, the hurt ran deep. She’d been too blunt, too honest and not the least bit compassionate. “I’m sorry, Fáelán. You’re right. I know nothing of the past but what I’ve read, while you lived it. Who am I to say what is fact and what is faerie tale? If I promise to let go of the academic version of Ireland’s history, and to be a better listener, will you forgive me?”
Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters) Page 5
