Blasted indeed.
"Boyo, I know that look," Brady said, as they simultaneously became visible. "Ye just witnessed they hold feelings for each other. Ye cannot be thinking to muddle it up."
"Muddle?" His mind began a rapid calculation. Aye, there were feelings, but they appeared to not be set in stone. "No muddling, brother, just taking the High King's advice and looking for the key to my treasure." Joy. Appreciation and love of life's gifts. Gifts like the love of a woman. A woman like Kathryn.
Killian dissolved in a swirl of sparkling magic and something else.
Determination.
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Women are a bane to reasonable, civilized men."
Killian continued to brush the bay mare that Colin had brought back with him from England. The stables of Keshlea Manor were renowned in Ireland, and the Earl was always looking for fine stallions and mares to breed to his stellar bloodlines.
"I don't know," replied Killian, smoothing the horse's mane. "This beauty seems content."
As long as that upstart stallion stays away from me.
The horse rolled its eyes toward Killian, then tossed its head. He held the halter, sent her soothing energy, then glanced at Colin and his scowling expression. He'd been in a foul mood since the confrontation with Kathryn. "Are ye having problems then?"
"Aye," he replied, falling into the lilt. "It's Kathryn Smithfield. She's as stubborn a female as I've ever met."
"And ye've met a few in your time in London." Killian bit his lip, kept stroking the mare's head. He felt Colin's focused regard.
"Why would you say that?"
Colin had always been too sharp for a mortal.
Killian shrugged. "An assumption only. I mean yer the Earl of Keshlea, and ye were in London at the height of the season."
Colin grunted, scooped up another pile of hay, tossed it into a stall. The lord had an army of stable hands, but he favored bending to the tasks himself. 'Twas a favorable attribute that had always impressed Killian.
Careful. 'Twouldn't do to feel empathy for the competition.
Killian dodged the mare's nip, felt her irritation along their mental connection as he'd caught her mane in the brush. He sent his apologies then chastised himself. He could not dwell on the man's qualities. It shone too bright a light of conscience on his plan to derail any burgeoning relationship between the earl and Kathryn.
"A bunch of irrational nonsense." Colin speared the hay like a soldier meeting an enemy in battle, added it to a growing pile suited for a team of horses rather than one. He stabbed the prongs into the dirt and leaned on the wooden handle. "She accuses me of trifling with other women. She knows me better than that. You know me better than that."
Killian slowed his strokes. Aye, he did. Colin was nothing, if not the most sincere soul he'd yet to meet. Save Kathryn.
Aye, don't be forgetting about Kathryn. Ye know, the woman ye want to steal from yer friend?
Killian cleared his throat, set the brush aside, and checked the mare's bridle. "'Tis said women are fickle."
Colin blew out a breath. "Not Kathryn. She's one of a kind. Have you ever known a woman so self-assured?"
Killian shifted at the wistfulness in Colin's voice. Shite.
"Intelligent, kind, determined, strong, full of good humor…" Colin sighed again. "Most of the time, at any rate."
Christ, but the man was making it hard to plot against him. Before his inner voice could pipe in, he scrolled through his rationalizations once again. He was not doing anything on purpose to his friend, only working to advantage to show Kathryn that he, Killian, was the man who could make her dreams come true.
Yer not a man, yer a Leithprachaun. And how many dreams have come true for ye?
"She's a fine woman, she is," Killian replied carefully, then changed the subject. "What are yer plans for the haunting tonight?"
The haunting. That's what they'd decided to call Colin's efforts to thwart the British emissaries who wished to claim Keshlea land. It was now two weeks since the earl had first proposed the plan, ten days since his encounter with Kathryn in the barn. On bad days, Killian felt a twinge of remorse for spying on their private moment. On good days? Well, on good days, he gave into the mischievous aspect of his Leithprachaun blood and reveled in his ingenuity.
'Twas a fickle thing among the folk, Brady had commented. Using a sound moral compass only when it served a Fae's purpose. No denying it. That had stung, no matter the truth of it.
He'd consider that later.
Killian led the horse into her stall, well away from the fractious stallion, hung a bucket of oats on a hook, and gave her a rub under the chin.
"The haunting?" Colin shook his head. "Well, the groundwork has been laid. Rumors abound about mysterious figures seen round the valley."
Killian snorted. "The infamous trolls, aye. They've been out every night from dusk to dawn."
Colin walked over and rested his arms on the top of the stall door, watched him remove the mare's halter. "How did you arrange that? I hope you didn't hire people from the village who might speak too freely."
Killian took his time answering. He didn't reckon Colin would want to know that half the time they were magical shadows, and the other a few of Rua's clan who enjoyed playing tricks. Of course Rua would not be amused either. "No, the trolls, as ye say, are trusted minions. And really, there were less sightings then there was gossip planted in the right ears about the mysterious doings."
A slow grin curved Colin's mouth. "The Irish are always up for a good tale."
Killian rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and stepped out into the run. "Seems like wasted effort to me. I've not seen one British official since we started."
"The emissary from London isn't expected until next week. This is merely groundwork for the larger event when they arrive."
"A larger event?" He was beginning to think Colin had lost a bit of his mind staying so long in London. "Are ye sure ye haven't blown this a wee bit out of proportion? Let them search for jewels that are not there. Once they discover they are on a fool's mission, they'll seek other folk to harass. Keshlea can surely endure their presence for a short time."
Colin's expression sobered. "On the face of it, I would agree." He mirrored Killian and straightened his shirt. "But Killian. There is something off about the whole affair. I can give you no logical explanation of why I believe it is so, only that it feels…wrong."
The sincerity and concern in his friend's eyes gave Killian pause. He'd never known Colin to be particularly intuitive, though many Irish were. 'Twas why they and the Fae co-existed so amiably.
"I've never been one to naysay a feeling." He met Colin's gaze. "Perhaps these buggers will sink in their fine ship, and we won't have to spare another thought about this foolishness."
"Milord."
They both turned to the butler who stood ramrod—straight at the entry of the stable, his nose appropriately skewed at the earthy scents.
"Yes, Blakely?"
"Visitors have arrived, milord. From London."
Colin and Killian exchanged looks. Killian snatched his jacket from a post. "Well, I suppose the weather was fair sailing, then."
"Hmm…" Colin said. "I have a feeling that the journey is about to meet with a storm."
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER NINE
Killian paced outside the closed oak doors of Keshlea Manor's library. Mortals could take an infuriatingly long time to prepare themselves.
On return from the horse stables, Colin had retired to his suite to freshen his appearance for the government agent, while offering Killian a guest bedroom to do the same. He'd taken it, allowed the servants to prepare a bath, and then, with a snap of his fingers, cleansed and dressed himself in fawn breeches and white linen shirt, with an embroidered emerald waistcoat. His cravat was spotless and perfectly tied, and his black leather boots polished to a high sheen. The expression on the valet's face when he'd emerged in
less than twenty minutes had been priceless.
The man would remember only that he'd assisted the lord's guest in the hour allotted, and that Killian had been most congenial.
The tension in Colin at the announcement that the party had arrived ahead of schedule had been palpable. He'd been silent on the trip back to the manor house, had ordered refreshments prepared, and seemed relieved when told his grandmother was not in residence, having taken a day trip to see a distant relation in Dingle.
Things felt wrong. Killian ran Colin's observation through his head. Propriety dictated he wait for the lord of the manor before entering the room where the arrivals waited. But he was Fae, and as he'd already proven with his intrusion…um, observation…of Colin and Kathryn, he was not above using magic to probe a situation. He sent out a sensing net and came up with exactly nothing. He frowned. Sent another, and met with blankness.
Feck, what was that about? Everything in life had inherent magical signatures, and yet he was picking up emptiness? Killian rubbed his temples.
"My apologies to have kept you waiting."
Killian faced Colin. The man was every inch the aristocrat, his clothes the finest quality, his hair precisely combed, his morning coat a deep royal blue. He strode with confidence, but his eyes reflected he, too, was uncertain about what lay on the other side of the door.
Colin paused, stood shoulder—to—shoulder with Killian, and contemplated the door.
"Remember," Killian said beneath his breath. "Ye are the Earl of Keshlea."
"As if I could ever forget," he muttered. With a nod of his head, he motioned for a footman to open the door.
Two servants circulated among the seven men clustered about the room, with silver trays of assorted sweets and small meat pies. Another offered crystal tumblers of golden whiskey, and those were much more popular than the food. Squaring his shoulders, Colin donned his Earl of Keshlea cloak and proceeded into the library.
"Gentlemen," he said, making his way toward the large mahogany desk. "My apologies for not attending your arrival."Killian positioned himself to the side of the door, and studied the gathering. Each man was presentable in the manner of men of business or solicitors. While heeding Colin's arrival, they held no particular expressions—no surprise, no awe of an aristocrat, not even of respect. Just bland masks of indifference. Odd. Lackeys were usually effusive in the presence of their betters. As he processed that, he noticed something else. The scene didn't smell right.
Quite literally did not…smell…right.
All of his magic went on high alert, but it was Killian's shifter senses that caught the scent of predator. They were pure mortal, their scent a rather stale, musty odor.
As Colin reached the desk, three of the men separated to reveal a fourth one seated in the oaken chair.
Killian's magic crackled. Colin's thoughts might as well have been shouted out loud.
The impertinent bastard.
The force of Colin's internal reaction told Killian all he needed to know. This was the infamous Randall Lycingsham.
There was nothing extraordinary in his dress or manner—elegant hands folded in his lap, one long leg draped over the other. Killian sensed there was strength beneath his lean build. His features were sharp, angular, with a long slope of a nose that some might describe as snout—like. The hair on his head was black and thick, and swept away from his forehead like a mane. Killian inhaled deeply, detected a different odor. Sharp, harsh spice, and danger.
"Sir Lycingsham." said Colin, one brow raised in clear question as to why he was sitting in the master's chair. In what was one beat too long to be considered polite, the government emissary rose without a word of apology and moved to another high—back chair angled before the desk. Keeping his gaze fixed on his visitor, Colin took his seat. "I did not expect you before the last of December."
"Ah, well," the man drawled. "My patron wished the enterprise to be completed before the Yule celebration."
The man's speech was smooth, cultured, yet crawled down Killian's spine. He cast out another probing wave. Lycingsham's head snapped round, his eyes arrowing in on Killian. Instinct took over and he reinforced the shield to conceal his true essence.
"Who is this?" Lycingsham demanded.
Colin set his jaw against the man's rudeness. "Sir Randall Lycingsham, emissary of the Prince Regent, may I present Mr. Killian Murchadha."
Killian sketched the barest of bows. "An honor."
Sir Randall's brow rose a fraction, his small, black eyes sharp and unnerving. The shifter within Killian howled, sputtered and jerked, trying to change form, but Killian's stronger Leithprachaun magic fought to subdue the fragmented energy, the strange sensations that tore through him. He'd never shifted free-form, had only ever been able to possess creatures, and he was fair certain Colin had no panthers, bears, or eagles in his library. The shifter magic howled in frustration.
Kill it.
He swallowed hard, schooled his features to an expression of calm. A feat that, as the urge to rip the man's throat out was overwhelming.
Sir Randall stood. "You must be the rustic the earl has spoken of."
Magic aside, the Irish in Killian bristled at the sneer in the man's voice. He inclined his head. "Aye, I must be, and ye must be the…" Bastard, arse. "…misguided leader of a futile excursion."
The man's brow rose again. "Indeed, you take issue with the crown's decree?"
Killian sipped his whiskey. "Who am I to challenge the crown, save a rustic under its…shall we say…benevolent care."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Some would call themselves subjects of said crown."
The bastard was baiting him. "Aye, some would say so."
Killian lifted a shoulder at the censuring look Colin sent him, then heaved an inner sigh. 'Twasn't fair to put Keshlea in an awkward position with an opponent, especially one with more to his agenda than simple land acquisition. "My apologies, Sir Randall if my response was curt. We've a lot of pride in Ireland, and it often springs from our mouths before visiting our heads."
Sir Randall gave him a long look.
"Hmm…Indeed."
Kill it, kill it, kill it.
"What man doesn't have his pride?" interceded Colin, gesturing for their glasses to be filled. "Your patron, Lord…"
Lycingsham's mouth curved into a sly smile. "I am fortunate to be acquainted with numerous lords, yourself included."
"Quite. As I said, I was informed of your plans, and marvel at your early…and unexpected…arrival."
Lycingsham tugged his stare from Killian. "The winds were in our favor. I hope you do not see our arrival as an intrusion?"
"Not at all, but I must confess I am in agreement with Killian, in that this trip is futile."
Lycingsham sniffed, as if bored by the conversation. "How so?"
"The portion of my estate in which you and your…patrons…have expressed interest is…well, let us say, a place rife with problems."
Killian sipped his whiskey. This was going to be interesting.
"What sort of problems?" asked Sir Randall.
"The cursed kind," Colin replied smoothly.
Swear to the goddess, Lycingsham would have a monster of a headache if his brow raised one more time. Yet…he didn't seem as incredulous as one might expect a staid Englishman to be.
Kill it, Killian's inner voice growled
"And what type of curse would that be? Growing a second head? Doomed to walk the earth for eternity? Plagued with boils?"
Now it was Killian who looked askance. Those were standard Fae curses. Dark Fae curses.
"On occasion," answered Colin with a tight smile, "It is purported to be haunted."
The man scoffed. "You Irish are renowned for your ridiculous superstitions." He leaned toward Colin. "I suspect you wish to hoard the riches beneath your soil for your own coffers."
As much as Killian wished he could take his inner self's advice and kill the bastard, there was something more than greed at play here. Ev
ery probe he'd sent toward the man had met a rock wall or a void. There were traces of power behind them, but even his Leithprachaun magic could not discern its source or penetrate its meaning.
Colin refused to take the bait. He held Lycingsham's gaze. "I will reiterate once again, Sir Lycingsham. The grounds of Keshlea hold no such treasures. My solicitors have petitioned the Prince to halt such endeavors, and until I receive the missive upholding my ancestral land rights, there will be no exploration."
Even Colin could not keep the surprise from his expression as Sir Randall pulled a folded document from his coat pocket. He tossed it onto Colin's desk.
"I was asked to deliver this to you…by your solicitor."
It took no reading of the missive to know it contained the news that the Earl of Keshlea had lost his appeal to avert intrusion on his lands, his village, his people. A foreboding shuddered through Killian. On his life.
Sir Randall stood, his cohorts shifting as one with him. "Now, my lord, if you would be so kind as to show us to our accommodations so that we may recover from our journey. Our work starts on the morrow."
And Killian's started now.
AN IRISH GIFT
CHAPTER TEN
"It's too damn cold to be traipsing around the woods."
"Nobody asked ye to come."
Brady made a show of hunching down in his wool coat. "Can't let a brother search for demons on his own. What would the High King say?"
Patric would have some cryptic advice, or barge into the situation, royal decrees blazing, and take over the handling of the matter. No offense or disrespect intended, but his High King didn't have the answers to every situation. Killian pulled aside an overgrowth of ivy to clear the path. Until he knew more about what was going on with Lycingsham, he'd leave the rest of his clan out of it. "'Tis not demons I'm searching for, though Rua can be a pain in the devil's arse."
"Rua? The shifter? Why are we dragging around in the damp woods? Can't ye just bark or howl or something to summon him?"
Killian rolled his eyes, bent down to peer into the hole of a log. "Don't be an arse. He is the chieftain of my mother's people and is due a certain amount of respect."
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