Chasing Destiny

by Linda Eble-Swain

  Chasing Destiny

  Linda Eble-Swain

  Published: 2011

  Tag(s): "ancient curse" redhead witch "magical sword" "love story"

  Chapter 1

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  Prologue

  She comes. It was whispered by the fairies to the trees in voices that were beyond musical in their beauty.

  She comes. It was whispered from the trees to the waving blades of grass.

  She comes. The voices seemed to grow as the news passed to the animals hidden deep within their burrows or high in the thickets where deer watched with perked ears, or foxes peeked from their dens.

  The entire dimension waited with baited breath as a woman struggled to bring life into their world. Red hair lay in damp, lanky curls, her hand grasping that of the tall man with midnight hair and dark eyes that was her husband, her soul mate, her very life. Without Nicholas, Katherine Ravencroft Cassidy knew she would not have lived through the night.

  All of Avalon shimmered in misty light, a dimension that reflected what others referred to as “the other world.”

  Avalon, a place that had been lost in the mists of time, shielded from prying eyes as a final gift by the priestesses that had laid a beloved king to rest. None, they had vowed, would ever see the place where magic would always dwell. Where fairies and unicorns still lived, where all that had been lost in legends and myth still existed.

  Now, it waited, waited for the birth of the one that would protect that world and keep it whole.

  And as dawn finally broke over Avalon, the infant’s first lusty cries split the silence.

  “It’s a beautiful lass, my love.”

  Leaning forward, Nicholas Cassidy kissed his wife’s still damp brow. “She has your hair and her eyes are already more green than blue.”

  “Eve,” his sleepy wife whispered as exhaustion threatened to take over. “We said we would name her Eve after your mother.”

  “Call her what you will,” a gruff voice said from the foot of the bed. Agnes Ravencroft, Katherine’s sister and a healer of great renown, held the squirming infant in her arms. “Her eyes will be the same green as her mother’s, but her hair – her hair will be the color of autumn leaves. The color of rust.”

  “Rusty,” mused the new father, white teeth gleaming as he smiled in agreement. “Eve may be the name put to record, but to us, she will always be, “Rusty.”

  Chapter One

  It was her hair that first attracted his attention. Glowing like ropes of fire, he could only stare at it and her as she strolled along the open pens, running an expert hand over gleaming flanks and down sturdy legs.

  Being a man who prided himself on being an expert in both horseflesh and women, Ian McAllister knew a prizewinner when he saw one. He was a man who stretched the conventional description of 'handsome' to its outermost limits, with dark hair that women ached to play with, and flashing blue eyes that could, with their color alone, command the attention of an entire room. Standing just over six feet tall, he had a tapered, poetic face, a slash of aristocratic cheekbones, and a sculpted mouth that screamed to be kissed. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, thick and full sweeping back from a strong forehead to fall inches below broad shoulders. His eyes were blue, but the word was much too simple for the depth of color or the power in them. He dressed, as always, to accentuate his good looks. Dark gray jeans were tucked into a black shirt while the wind teased at his long sleeves.

  A man as handsome as he was could stop a thousand hearts, but very few women could do the same to him. He felt he had just seen one of them.

  “Jim, who’s that redhead over there?” he asked, after taking a moment to calm himself.

  Jim Cafferty, both his head trainer as well as boyhood friend, only had to take one glance to guess the identity of the redhead to which Ian was referring.

  “Ah, you’d best leave that one alone, boy-o,” he answered, the sound of the Irish hills thick on his tongue. “Eve McCenery may look as warm as a sunlit day, but most say she’s as cold as ice.”

  “Never knew ice that couldn’t be melted with the right amount of heat,” Ian observed, his mouth watering at the sight of slender legs encased in tight denim jeans, a checkered shirt tucked in to accentuate a slender waist.

  “One man did,” Jim observed as he pulled a wooden match from the side of his mouth. “Left her a widow before a year was up – shot in the back he was, some say, although they never found who killed Michael McCenery. Not even with her powers could she say for certain who squeezed the trigger.”

  Cocking his head, Ian’s dark brow raised. “Powers? Take a look around you, man; the place is nothing but witches and magicians. What makes hers any different?”

  “Only that she rules the largest dimension in our world.” His brown eyes rounded as he shook his shaggy head, his muddy brown hair touching his shoulders. “Ya need to get out of that bloody office of yours, Ian, and take a look at more than ledgers and numbers.”

  “Avalon?” He said the word in a quiet hush, finding it difficult to believe that such a responsibility could be in the hands of someone so young.

  His eyes narrowed as Ian took yet another look at the slender woman, as she appeared to be haggling over the price of a bay mare. A mare that Ian happened also to have his eye on.

  “Then what’s she doing here?” he asked, the mists of Ireland echoing in his voice as his mind began turning over how he could use that mare to his best advantage.

  “I imagine the same thing that you are — looking for horses to breed. And it’s a mighty fine stable that she has – breeds Unicorns to Andalusians … successfully, I might add. Not an easy thing to do, if you ask me.”

  In a moment, Ian made his decision. “Go find out how much she is bidding on that mare – whatever it is, double it … triple it, if you have to. I want her.”

  Chuckling, Jim's eyes sparkled in amusement as he glanced at his friend. “The mare or the woman?”

  “Both.”

  * * * *

  “What do you mean that the mare is gone?” Tapping her foot in irritation, Eve McCenery watched as the breeder twisted his cap into a shapeless mass. “It was triple what you offered and – well, a man has to make a living.”

  “It would seem that I’m the cause of this.”

  When she turned, Ian simply held his breath for a moment. It was more than just the fiery red hair, or skin the color of skimmed cream – it wasn’t even that mouth of hers, full and pouting, that startled him. It was the entire package. The slender body with an athlete’s build, the temper that flared in those green eyes – and a magic that was almost palpable. And it was all packed into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Introductions were briefly made as the breeder quickly escaped, thanking the gods for the sale and for getting away from those two with his skin still intact.

  “Perhaps we could come to an agreement that would be of mutual satisfaction,” Ian said even as he gently guided her to a stand where refreshments were available.

  “And what would that be, Mr. McAllister?” When her slender fingers wrapped around a glass of Harp, Ian noticed the absence of a wedding ring. He moved in for the kill.

  “Your stud has a fine reputation – and the mare has a proven bloodline. Waive the stud fee and the first foal is yours.”

  Her slender brow arched as she watched him pay for their beers. He was confident – almost too confident, with an air about him that told her he was was accustomed to having things his own way.

  A sentiment that she understood all too well. “I’ll think about it,” she said as she placed down her glass. “If you have a card, I’ll take it and … we’ll talk.”

  “I’m free for dinner
tonight,” he said softly, a finger reaching out to trace a pattern over her hand.

  Sliding her hand away, she smiled, tucking his business card into a pocket. “But I’m not free … and thanks, but I’ve plans for – dinner.”

  He watched with amusement as she sauntered away, admiring the lithe grace of her movements. Oh, he’d have her all right, he thought as he continued to sip his beer. Before it was done, he’d have her and the service of her animal.

  * * * *

  “So, he’s interested in using Nightmare for stud, is he? Well, Mr. McAllister, let’s see what kind of stock you’ve got … and who exactly you are.”

  Flipping on her computer, Rusty tried to pull up information, still fuming over the encounter she'd had earlier that day. She highly suspected, now that she'd had time to think the matter over, that the smug bastard had only upped the price on that mare in order to get close to her. It was a ploy with which she'd had a little experience since Michael had died, and it was one that always made her blood boil. As though I was the mare for sale, not that horse! Well, he wanted to get to know me… Let's see what I can dig up on HIM.

  Ian McAllister, CEO of McAllister Industries she read. Birth date unknown. Birthplace, Dublin, Ireland. Parents, unknown. Marital status, single. Estimated gross worth, Fifty billion, eight hundred million.

  Power and money, she thought as she sat back, her fingers tapping against her leg. An interesting combination, she had to admit, and the man wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. But there was something about him that warned her that he was not a man to be trifled with. Not like the men she had recently begun dating. He wouldn’t be satisfied with a dinner and then a chaste kiss at the door. No, he wouldn’t settle for less than everything.

  And everything was something that she wasn’t going to give again – ever.

  * * * *

  Leaning against a wooden rail, Ian McAllister watched the slender figure as she moved around the pasture. Her call earlier in the week had pleased and surprised him. To be invited to Apsley was something that he knew to be rare. Still, as he looked around the pastoral scene, he could understand why Eve McCenery protected her privacy.

  Lush groves of fruit trees were laden with fruit, while further down, he could make out the promise of a successful crop of corn and wheat.

  But he could tell it was the horses that were her true love.

  A glossy mare stood out in the field, nibbling at the grass patiently while her colt nursed. Others, including the mare who was mother to the yearling that had caught Ian’s eye, perked up her ears and watched as Eve moved through the pasture.

  Patiently, he watched as she greeted other horses, sharing bits of apple, and then stood with her arm slung around a yearling neck as her eyes finally met his. After running a hand down the yearling’s leg, Eve moved to where Ian stood waiting.

  “It was good of you to come all the way out here.”

  Lifting his tinted glasses, Ian looked at her. She stood with one well-worn boot on a bottom rail, her faded jeans hugging slender hips while a crop top peeked out from under a shirt the color of ripe peaches. Her hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and Ian found his hand itching to pull at the ribbon that held her hair in place, just to watch it tumble down over her shoulders.

  “I don’t see – any horns.” It had to be the lamest statement he had ever made, but it was hard for a man to think when those green eyes were looking at you with veiled amusement.

  “They aren’t born with them,” she answered easily as she shifted to watch a foal gamble across the field. “Usually they get them around their first year, and the females' are never as long or as lethal as the males.”

  She pointed to a coal black yearling. “That’s one of Nightmare’s. A beauty, isn’t she?”

  “That she is,” he replied, his eyes on the woman and not the horse. For a moment, his thoughts wandered to glistening dining rooms with quiet, elegant service, rather than the chaff-laden sweet air of the large paddock in which they stood. He wondered what it would be like to see her across from a candlelit table, an elegant frock gracing those curves of hers, while jewels glistened from her slender throat.

  Crossing a green meadow, she led him to a large wrap around porch, gesturing to the glistening wicker chairs that gleamed white in the afternoon sun. A matching table with a clear glass top separated the chairs, while the scent of wisteria came from overhanging pots.

  As if on cue, a slender man with snow-white hair brought out a silver tray laden with a frosty pitcher of lemonade along with iced glasses and dainty lemon cookies. The epitome of a proper butler, Ian wouldn’t have given the man a second glance if it wasn’t for his vest, the color of ripe plums, glowing from under his pristine black jacket.

  “Thank you, Uncle Marston.” Smiling upwards from her diminutive height, she tugged at the butler's sleeve until with a sigh he leaned down. “Do you insist on serving lamb stew for dinner?” she asked wistfully.

  “I do,” he replied gravely, a twinkle coming to his brandy colored eyes. “You’ve lost more weight, and the seamstress refuses to take your frocks in one more time. That is, of course unless you would prefer a shopping trip.”

  Cringing in mock horror for a moment, she forgot Ian’s presence. “And here I thought that you loved me. You know how I hate shopping.”

  With a sigh, the butler stood ramrod straight. “As you wish, but I daresay it would do your Aunt good to spend some time in the city and you know that she adores shopping.” With a final sniff of disdain, he poured liquid sunshine into the glasses before retreating.

  For the first time, Ian saw her smile – a truly bewitching sight as her eyes twinkled. “They’re a love match – that crusty dear man and my aunt,” she explained after the staid man had vanished. “They’ve known each other – oh, I won’t say for how long but it just about crushed him when he was forced into retirement by the prince.”

  His dark brow lifted even as he sipped his drink. “Prince? Which prince are you referring to?”

  “Well, not a magical one,” she laughed. “I hear that there are a few domains that are still like kingdoms but the one I was referring to was the one as in … Wales.”

  For a moment, the silver chain that he wore under his shirt seemed to burn, reminding him of his birthright. “And now?”

  “And now he runs this house as if it were Windsor palace. I can’t imagine what I’d do without him.”

  “Somehow,” he observed quietly, “I think that you’d manage.” Again, he shifted in his seat; her nonchalant comment about magical princes had both intrigued and unnerved him.

  “Well, we’ve arranged for the sale of the yearling, Hera should be ready for your stud soon… ” He smiled. “Now that we have the practical matters settled, suppose you and I have dinner?”

  Her eyes narrowed, the smile that had been on her face slowly fading. “I’m sorry. I very seldom mix business with pleasure. I’m sure that you’ll be pleased with the foal but … ”

  “Are you afraid of me, Mrs. McCenery? Or may I call you Eve?”

  “You may call me Eve, and no I’m not afraid of you, Mr. McAllister. It’s just a matter of keeping things – simple.”

  “And having dinner with me would complicate – what?”

  She couldn’t answer that, and he could see he’d struck a nerve. Glancing down at his wrist, his timepiece glowed in the sun. “I’ve a few things to attend to in town. Suppose we meet at The Greenhouse – say, at eight?”

  She tilted her head, impressed by his choice. Enough to mix business and pleasure? “Are you certain that you can get reservations this late?”

  “Oh, trust me. Just meet me there, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Before she could change her mind, Ian moved to his feet. For him, it was simply a matter of calling off a standing date in order for his table with the garden view to be available, and he was certain that Janice would find other ways to amuse herself.

  “Oh, and Eve,” he said as he slipp
ed on his sunglasses. “My name is Ian.”

  Watching as he climbed inside his snazzy little sports car, she shook her head. “You have to admire a man who drives a classic T-bird. And it does get me out of Marston’s lamb stew.”

  * * * *

  When she arrived, Ian was delightfully surprised. She looked amazing in a little black number that stopped mid-thigh, a silver jacket taking the dress from casual chic to elegance. Moving smoothly on shoes that were little more than thin straps attached to a heel, there was a grace about her that belied the image of a tomboy, the one that had met him this afternoon. Ian’s memory of her dressed in jeans and a work shirt flew out with the first whiff of her perfume.

  She was privately pleased to see that her hands didn’t tremble as she perused the menu. Ian sat across from her, looking as striking as a man could get in a black dinner suit. There was something about him that dazzled, she thought, and it both amused and frightened her a bit.

  “See anything that you like?” His voice, smooth and charming, with just a hint of Irish, held just a bit of his own amusement.

  Looking over the edge of the list, a tapered nail tapped the edge. “Too much to choose from. Suppose you order for both of us?”

  It pleased him ridiculously as he placed their order, noticing a slender brow lift as he glanced at the wine menu before choosing a rare and very expensive bottle of Chateau d’Yquem. As they waited, he looked across the glittering table, meeting her cautious stare.

  “Tell me, is what they say about you true?”

  To his surprise, she laughed as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. “I imagine that there is a lot said about me – most of it is probably true. If you’re asking me if I’m a witch, you already know the answer to that. Perhaps I should ask the same of you.”

  “And I would answer in kind,” he said, with a charming smile. “But I have no secrets – or none that you can’t uncover. And that intrigues you, doesn’t it? That I already know that about you.”