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AN IRISH GIFT
A GUARDIAN ISLE NOVELLA
JOAN KAYSE
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER ONE
"Wonderful! Now the festivities can begin!"
Killian pressed a palm to the throbbing behind his right eye which burrowed even deeper when the rest of the gathering cheered. He glanced around the parlor but his vision was blurred and objects obliterated with sparkling white lights. Blasted headache.
He snatched a glass of mead from a passing server and downed it in one gulp. 'Twasn't likely to help as it might a mortal suffering from the same malady, but then the cause of his was a bit different.
He'd just shifted out of animal form.
Well, not strictly speaking, of course. He wasn't a full-blooded shifter like his mother, who could change into any mammal or avian she chose. No, thanks to his Leithprachaun father's solitary Fae magic, he was only able to possess other creatures.
Aye, and he paid the price, too. Every. Single. Time.
"Mr. Murchada, we've been waiting for you to start the dance."
Killian set his jaw against the slap to his back and cast a sideways look at Percy Fitzsimmons. An amiable fellow for an Englishman whose whole existence revolved around balls, soirees, and the horse wagering his father's money provided.
He flashed his brightest smile, hid the wince it provoked, and slapped the man back. "Aye, but 'tis no reason to wait on me. Go, find a pretty young miss who'll put up with yer bungling feet and show the rest of us how 'tis done."
Percy returned a sloppy smile, an indication of the amount of spirits he'd already consumed, then made a beeline for a group of pretty cailins, who giggled and fluttered their silk fans at his approach. With an overdone flourish, his man bowed and led one of the girls by her gloved hand toward the space cleared for dancing.
Killian blew out a breath of relief. Now, perhaps he could recuperate. He accepted another glass of mead with a nod, then made his way into a small, drawing room, empty save for the elderly magistrate of the village who dozed in a high back chair, an empty glass dangling from his hand.
With a wave of his hand, Killian saved the glass, sending it floating to a side table, where it landed with a gentle clink. He dropped into a matching chair, propped his head against the padded back. Christ, he was tired.
"Patric will have yer balls if he catches ye throwing magic around mortals."
Killian glanced at his brother Brady then closed his eyes. "What about ye? Yer crashing into the party uninvited."
"I'll beg yer pardon, but I am a guest…of a sort. I've been playing music all night."
Killian popped one eye open. "Irish music? At an English country party?"
"I can play other types of music," groused Brady, leaning against a mahogany chest.
"Aye, ye can. But 'tis the melodies of the Isle that suit ye best. Da chose yer treasure well."
The treasures. No pot of gold, as mortals believed, but a cache of essences vital for both Fae and mortal worlds. Ceded to the Leithprachaun warriors to hold and protect.
"What about ye?" Brady smirked. "Da gave ye the essence of craic, of life's joys, but yer face is as long as that donkey in yonder barnyard." He paused, leaned toward him with narrowed eyes. "Were ye the donkey in the barnyard?"
Killian scowled. "For Christ's sake, shifters can choose any animal. Why would I be a donkey?"
Brady sniffed the air. "Well, ye've been something. Gah, what a stench."
Killian scowled. "I was searching for my mam, if ye must know the truth of it."
"As what? Pig? Chicken?"
"Badger."
Brady waved a hand in front of his nose. "For how long?"
Too long. He ran a hand through his hair. He'd intended to run the tunnels of the badger colony once, to see if he could find Caitronia, or someone who might know where…or what…she was, so that he could assure himself of her safety. But his host animal had decided to take a nap mid-scurry, and Killian had not been able to disengage beneath ground. "Doesn't matter. I didn't find her."
The silence that followed was far more maddening than Brady's blather. The unspoken sympathy, the unstated opinion that Killian's search was futile. He crossed his arms over his chest against the niggling urge to agree. "She just gets into these moods, 'tis all."
"Hmm…" Brady replied, in a non-committal way. The growl started in his throat, but then the magistrate made a stifled, snorting noise. Brady sent a sharp look in his direction. "Christ, 'tis easy to forget the mortal buggers. Do ye think he heard?"
Killian sat forward, rubbed the back of his neck. "The magistrate is deaf as a brass doorknob, and addled to boot."
"So he's the life of this party?"
Killian opened his mouth to tongue-lash that smirk off his brother's face, but was stopped by a soft cough. They turned as one to the door.
"Excuse the intrusion, but I've come to check on my father."
Killian sensed Brady's interest, by the primal drumbeat emitting from his aura. His brother's emotions always translated to music. With a warning glare, he stood and bowed at the waist. "Miss Smithfield, 'tis a pleasure to see ye again."
Kathryn Smithfield peeled her silk evening gloves off and made a face at him. Bare arms? So unconventional. "So formal, Mr. Murchada? We only just saw each other last week at the Cleardun affair."
"Was it only last week?" He feigned confusion. "It seems an age since last I beheld yer beauty."
She laughed. "Isn't this what you Irish call blarney?"
It 'Twas, but he so enjoyed the way it made her eyes crinkle when she smiled. Kathryn was a sight to behold. The light from the candles burning on the mantle bathed her in a golden glow that enhanced her natural beauty, casting her into the role of goddess. Pfft, his inner voice snorted. Ye've known a goddess or two and none were as exquisite. Aye, and he'd be certain to never voice such an observation around any of said goddesses. Goddesses were not known for their good humor.
Kathryn's complexion was luminous, her cheeks pink, her mouth kissable, and her chin just the right amount of pert. She wore her honey brown hair in a loose chignon, twined with ivory ribbon. Killian's gaze drifted down the slim column of her throat and stifled his disappointment at her modest décolletage. But the style of the dress with its high waist still provided a lovely accentuation of her generous bosom. A warm rush swept through him at the thought of holding them in his hands.
Kathryn raised her head and met his gaze.
The heat went from his blood to his groin in an instant. He glanced away, focused on the fact that her father was in the room, which took care of the matter as quickly as a dip in the cold Irish Sea. When he turned back, a slight smile graced Kathryn's lips. He cleared his throat. "Don't play the coquette, Miss Smithfield. Ye know full well yer the centerpiece of all the gatherings." He gestured to Brady. "We both agree."
Kathryn's forehead wrinkled in confusion. Shite, what nonsense was Brady pulling? The area where he'd stood was empty. Blasted arse.
He cleared his throat. "We, as in all the lads in society's circle."
She smiled and sauntered into the room. "I was fairly certain you weren't referring to father." She stopped by the magistrate's chair and gently stroked a wisp of silver hair off his forehead. The simple gesture sent a wave of melancholy through Killian.
Gah, he was being such a sop. Aye, he could count his mood to fatigue and worry for his mother. What Brady hadn't voiced was what each of his siblings had experienced in some fashion—the loss of their mothers— in mind, body, or spirit. All because of the devastating charm of Finn, High King of the Leithprachaun. Also known as man-whore and bastard.
Killian pulled away from the dark thoughts and focused on his fair companion. "Why are ye meandering about? I'd have thought ye
too occupied with suitors clamoring for a dance."
Kathryn sighed and moved to the window. "It's all the same, isn't it? Idle chatter, pretentious posturing, inane flattery."
She'd get no argument from him. 'Twas the way of gentry affairs. "I'll allow that there are similarities between them. Leg of roasted skunk with turnips, ducktail soup, and the cross buns made with last year's spoiled honey."
She laughed as he had intended, and marveled at the specks of gold in her eyes.
"I find the cross buns the only saving grace of otherwise gastronomical disasters." She leaned toward him. "Honey does not go bad, you see."
Behind his back, Killian conjured a second glass of mead. "Aye," he said, offering it. "Honey is a fine way to escape the rut of it all."
The easy smile she gave him set his stomach to flutters, which was embarrassing on so many levels. He was a warrior, for goddess' sake.
Brady materialized back into the room. Killian's gaze shot to Kathryn, who seemed not to notice. He blew out a short breath of relief. The arse had had the good sense to conceal his presence.
His brother positioned himself on the opposite side of the magistrate's chair, leaned an elbow on its high back, and studied Kathryn with a look of longing that set Killian's teeth on edge.
"I really shouldn't be so unappreciative," Kathryn continued, sipping the wine. "It does get one out of the house and away from the domestic, household duties."
It wasn't hard to discern a note of despair beneath her words, and he found it intriguing. The ladies of the ton thrived on accomplishments such as painting, music and embroidery, achievements mimicked by the English living in Ireland—be they highborn or gentry such as Kathryn—while the Irish? Aye, the Irish worked for the tenant lords and scraped a living from the rocky soil. A dreary existence lightened only by the treasures he and his clan held. Until they'd lost them to a vengeful banshee.
The memory of that day and the implication of the world's future if they didn't recover them gnawed at Killian. Aye, they didn't have full possession of any treasure, but his? His was the spirit of celebration and appreciation of life. Even dulled by its absence, he knew how to shift the mood.
He opened his mouth to tell her a ridiculous joke, only to note that she was staring at something in the courtyard. Following her gaze, he saw a small, ragged stable boy being scolded by the head groomsman. His heart skipped again at the indignation reflected on her heart-shaped features.
"An Englishwoman with a soft heart?"
Brady's observation drifted only to Killian's ears. He glanced at his brother and scowled when he imitated a fluttering heart over the center of his chest. Throwing his head back on a silent laugh, Brady sprinkled blue fairy dust over the magistrate, then popped out.
Magistrate Smithfield sputtered and coughed, and Killian felt a moment's panic. No Leithprachaun would harm a mortal, but a few had been known to play a prank or two.
Kathryn rushed to her father's side and patted him on the back. Killian followed suit, surreptitiously checking for donkey ears.
"What, wha…?" the magistrate sputtered. "Kathryn, my dear, are you trying to beat me to death?"
"As if I could," his daughter replied with one last, gentle pat. "You're stout as an Irish oak."
"Humph…comparing me to this pitiful excuse for a country."
Killian tensed, read the apology in Kathryn's eyes. Aye, he'd not be blaming her for her father's narrowmindedness. He voiced only the prejudice so many held about his isle.
"Father…" Kathryn whispered.
The magistrate looked up at his daughter, then over to Killian. "Ah…well, lad. No offense intended."
Killian inclined his head. "None taken, sir." Briefly, he considered that Mr. Smithfield just might look fine with long, drooping ears.
Swear to the goddess, he sensed Kathryn's smile before he saw it.
"Come, Mr. Murchada, I believe I hear a reel beginning."
Killian took the hand she extended and stepping clear of her father's outstretched feet, tucked it into his arm. He would show her a fine time, and in the process? Well, who knew what fun might be had with a fine lady?
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER TWO
Christ, he was exhausted.
Killian strolled from his stone cottage into the crisp morning air, a cup of hot tea in hand. He took a long, slow sip, soaked in the view of dawn's golden rays illuminating the rolling green hills and meadows. 'Twas a sight that was a treasure itself, a reflection of the heart and soul of Ireland.
He blew out a sigh. He should be in bed, sleeping off the effects of last evening's revelry. But he was Leithprachaun, and while he could feel the effects of spirits, he was, sadly, incapable of becoming intoxicated. He smiled ruefully as he thought of Fitzsimmons and his motley crew. Their heads would be heavy as iron bells this morning.
When he'd escorted Kathryn back to the soiree, the lads had been well into their cups. Killian had done what he could to redirect the tone of the festivities, but a few had eluded his magical influence and fallen victim to the alcohol. Two were found snoring in the pantry, and one sodden lad had been dug out of the bushes arse-first by a beleaguered butler and his footmen.
Killian would have left the whole lot to their fate, if not for Kathryn. Entering the ballroom, she'd quickly joined her friends and the more sober gentlemen in dancing. Goddess, but the woman could dance, whirling from partner to partner during a reel. He was known to be light on his feet, but had found it quite the challenge to keep up.
He smiled into his cup. It had all been pretense of course, as being Fae, his endurance was endless. Dancing was good craic, but he'd gained more enjoyment from the deepening pink bloom on her perfect cheeks, the sweet melody of her laughter as she spun around the floor, her eyes sparkling like jewels.
The rise and fall of her bosom as she caught her breath between sets.
"Yer as randy as a goat in rut."
Killian rolled a bored look to the tree stump where Brady sat with arms propped on his knees, linen shirt falling open, boots scuffed with dirt, and bits of hay clinging to his trousers and hair. Between his hands he held a flask, cork stopper dangling from a piece of twine.
"Horny, is it?" he drawled. "Which lucky female had the pleasure of yer company last night?"
Brady gave him a lopsided smile. "Her name was Mary. Or Anna or Sarah, I don't recall exactly, but she was one of the finer ladies' maids, with hair the color of midnight, eyes like…"
"Stars, aye I know. Ye don't have to be wasting flattery on me, brother. We share a father. We both know the tactics."
Brady shrugged and took a drink from the flask.
"Ye took care of her?"
Brady's affable expression sobered. "Aye, she'll not be remembering anything of the tryst. Her mind will blur should she try to hook onto any memory…of me."
Killian felt his brother's bitterness. Mortals are forbidden to know ye are Leithprachaun. A harsh decree it was, this forced anonymity.
Brady visibly gathered himself. "Ye left the party early."
Killian snorted. "Early? I met three roosters on my way out."
"Did ye not see him then?"
"Not unless he was riding a chicken." He fixed a look at Brady. "And ye know there are several Fae who do it."
Brady snorted. "Are ye really one to judge, given as any of them could be relations?"
Killian scoffed. "My relations are more in line with foxes, birds of prey…"
"Badgers?"
He glared at Brady. "Leave it. Ye don't know the whole of it."
Brady sighed, waved his hand over the flask until whiskey sloshed over the rim. "I know 'tis hard, brother, when your mother loses her mind because of Finn."
"She's not lost her mind," he snapped, then pressed his lips together against Brady's pitying regard. "She's stronger than that."
Brady gave a harsh laugh. "Because she's a shapeshifter? Ye think because she possesses magic that she's immune to the madness?"
&n
bsp; Yes, he wanted to shout, but could not bear the pain behind Brady's eyes. Each of his siblings had a different mother, hence the moniker of man-whore for their father. After siring each child, the Leithprachaun king had ventured on to the next conquest. But the power of Finn Murchada's sexuality wreaked havoc on his lovers' psyches. Brady's mother, while a celestial being called an Angelica, had faired better than most, but in the end her innate intuition had tattered and exposed her son to danger. She'd saved him by paying the ultimate price. Christ, but it had been hard on his brother.
Caitronia of the shifters was different. She possessed a form of Fae magic that recognized the connection between animals and nature. Transformation from mortal glamour into beast was an homage to creation. Shifters who dedicated themselves to particular animals drew strength and power from that form. Cait's spirit animal was the peregrine falcon. A noble choice, to be sure, with its speed, keen sight and fierce nature…
And the fact that they mated for life, something his Da had not provided.
He scowled at the smug expression on Brady's face.
"So which rounder did I miss seeing?"
Brady answered as if the subject had not changed. "Lord Keshlea."
"Colin? I'd not heard news of his imminent return. The gossips reported he was quite content in London."
"False information, it would seem. Word is he's back looking to acquire more land for the Crown."
Killian gave his brother a sideways glance. "To what purpose?"
"Ye know the English. They've always an eye for taking what they chose, especially from our poor isle."
Aye, Ireland had long been fought over, her lands decimated, her people oppressed to the point that their culture was threatened with extinction. Plantations, stealing land, the Penal laws. But Colin Hardwick, Earl of Keshlea wasn't like the others.
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 47
