“Indeed.” His mother released him and flashed a warm smile. “She is good for you, Dáire. I knew that the moment I first laid eyes on her five years past. Take care of her.”
If she would only let him.
Before he could find a response that would explain his new circumstances, his mother faded into a faint mist that scattered as the breeze rolled off the ocean. He should have known she didn’t mean the insults that she flung at Reese. While she was capable of enormous feats, his mother didn’t possess a mean particle of her existence. She had sensed the underlying strength Dáire recognized in Reese and fueled it the only way circumstances would allow.
He peered through Reese’s dark living room on a hard swallow. His gaze latched onto her sleeping form, the bare skin that moonlight kissed. By the ancestors she was beautiful. In ways, more so than his mother.
Drawn by the picture of vulnerability that she painted, he moved through the room to her side. Habit had him reaching out to her mentally, despite the futility of trying. It didn’t matter; he sensed her intimately in much the same fashion, he imagined, as she had sensed his presence in her mind. He shook his head at the new sensation. It would take some time getting used to the lack of connection. Even Rhiannon, he couldn’t sense any more. But though he’d thought he would miss the bond of twinship, as he bent over Reese and tucked her into his arms, he found far more contentment in this. In the simplicity of mortal limitations.
She stirred as he lifted her. His heart caught as long pale eyelashes fluttered, then lifted, and her soft brown gaze met his.
****
Reese smiled as she snuggled into Dáire’s arms. Despite the nagging sound that urged her to wake up, she couldn’t pull herself away. He existed here. His arms full of comfort. His body full of warmth. His breath teasingly delightful as it stirred her hair, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke a strange balm to her bleeding soul.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Cigarette smoke? She blinked and jerked sideways, nearly tumbling out of Dáire’s arms. He stumbled, catching her just in time and pulling her into the strong confines of his chest. She craned her neck to look at him. “What…How…” Her words became a tangled mess, and she gave up the attempt to speak at all.
His chuckle scraped pleasantly across her skin as he carried her to the couch and set her in his lap. “We need to talk.”
Unable to believe she wasn’t still somehow asleep, Reese patted his arm, then his cheek. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, sweetheart. I’m really here. And I’m aching to kiss you.”
Just like that, she melted. Her heart took wings, and she lifted herself up, seeking his mouth, craving his kiss every bit as much.
To her complete consternation, Dáire leaned away. “Not yet. There are things you have to know first.”
Somehow, she sensed she wasn’t going to like this conversation. A frown settled into her brow, and she wrapped her arms across her bare breasts, suddenly aware of the chilly air. “Okay. Talk. Is this…temporary?”
Dáire shook his head. “No. I’m here until I take my last dying breath.”
“Then what’s going on? How are you here? I saw you…die.”
He smoothed a hand down her tangled hair with a nod. “I did die. As all of us who suffer the curse must, I stood before the ancestors. My past was weighed against my possible future, and I was found lacking.”
“Lacking? Dáire, you sacrificed your life for me.”
His sensual mouth lifted with a hint of the wry smile she found so endearing. “My ultimate saving grace. If I hadn’t, I would have probably been kept from returning as a mortal. You see, Reese…” He expelled a heavy sigh and looked over her shoulder at a point on the wall behind her. “I manipulated you.”
Her eyes widened. She squirmed in his lap until she connected with his clouded gaze. Frowning, she demanded, “What do you mean you manipulated me?”
He sighed again, and remorse filled those azure blues. One hand cupped the side of her face. His thumb gently stroked her cheek. “My gift was the ability to influence thought. Create memories that didn’t exist, suggest outcomes someone might not choose if it were of their own accord.”
Wariness invaded on her sense of elation. Her frown deepened, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. She didn’t fully understand how that related to her, but understood, in his mind at least, he felt he’d done her wrong. “I’m listening.”
“When you found the scroll, I created a link between us. I tried to influence you into giving it to me. Multiple times. Which is a violation of the natural laws. I did it again, when I explained what the scroll meant.”
“So you did just want the scroll.” Her stomach churned as her worst fear made a nasty appearance. “And the rest? Was that part of it?”
He flinched as she lifted her gaze back to his. “No, Reese.” His fingers pulled tenderly through her hair. “No. Being linked with you was hard enough. What you felt for me…” A wistful smile touched his face as he shook his head. “I don’t understand where that came from. But it overwhelmed me. I could hardly touch you without breaking the link.”
A little bubble of pleasure worked its way out of her soul, warming away the chill that had settled around her. At least he hadn’t convinced her into sex. Hadn’t manipulated her emotions to get what he wanted.
He hadn’t abused her. The rest seemed inconsequential given everything she’d witnessed. Given he had died and miraculously returned.
She snuggled into his embrace with an accepting, “Oh.”
“Oh?” Dáire asked in disbelief. “You aren’t angry?”
“Do you want me to be angry?”
“Well, no…but…Reese…”
“But what? I’ve wanted you for years. I probably loved you for years too. I was just too afraid to go after what I wanted.”
He drew in an unsteady breath that rasped across her flesh and pulled her tight against his chest. His cheek nuzzled her hair, filling her with a hundred different delightful emotions. Not the least of which was the intense need to feel his mouth on hers and become lost in his kiss.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
“So can I have that kiss now?” She tipped her head up as her heart turned a somersault.
Instead of dipping his head, however, he pursed his lips. “There’s more.”
“More? I suppose you influenced Tom into leaving me out there?”
At that, Dáire laughed. “Now that you mention it, I wish I had.” His smile dimmed as his eyes dipped to her mouth. “No, sweetheart. I’m afraid that in nature a balance must be maintained. If my gift is stripped, it must be given to someone else.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, as his gaze searched her face. “Someone…like…you.”
“Me?” She sat bolt upright. “Why me?”
“It seems the ancestors felt it would be fitting if I were to spend the rest of my days subjected to your will, if you chose the punishment.”
Subjected to her will.
Reese stared, dumbfounded. What was she supposed to do with a gift like this? But as Dáire refused to make eye-contact, all the times he’d teased her mercilessly, rose to the forefront of her memory. A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. “So you mean, I can control your…thoughts?”
He flinched again. “And actions.”
“That’s impossible. I’m not magical. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to use something like that.”
“Try it. I swear it’s true. Not only do you now possess my gift, I have to teach you how to use it.”
Oh, now this could definitely get interesting…if it were true. Cocking her head, she eyed him thoughtfully. Only one way to find out.
Kiss me, damn it.
Dáire’s gaze snapped to hers, his blue eyes flaring with dark light. His voice assumed a husky quality as his hand slipped to the back of her neck. “Lesson one, Reese. It’s astonishingly easy to get what you want when the subject is willing.”
Before her chuckle co
uld work free, his mouth sealed across hers. One firm, insistent nudge demanded her full compliance, and Reese parted her lips to meet the ardent stroke of his tongue. Bliss pummeled through her. Not just from the heat of his kiss or the restrained passion she felt in the tense grip of his fingers. But from the enormity of it all. In two days she’d become stronger than she’d ever been, and through some grace of God, overpowered a demon bent on destroying her. Dáire had fought for her. Given his life to keep her safe. He’d sacrificed everything he was…and came to her uncertain. A mortal man filled with the same mortal insecurities.
She twined her fingers through his long hair as emotion flooded her mind. One thought dominated the desperate need to feel his body against hers…that she loved him beyond all rationality. And that she’d do whatever it took to insure she never damaged his love.
Dáire broke the kiss, his breath hard against her cheek. “I love you, Reese. Nothing will change that.”
She drew back surprised. “You heard that too?”
Her answer came with his wry, devil-may-care grin.
You really should stop smoking.
His smirk deepened. “Maybe you can find a way to distract me long enough that I can.”
“Oooh. I like the sound of that.” Grinning, she ran a hand down the flat of his chest. “I think we should begin now.” Take me to bed, Dáire.
With a bark of laughter, he scooped her into his arms. “Don’t abuse me, sweetheart.”
“Never.” No, this exchange was fun, but she’d never use their mental connection to her advantage. It was enough, just knowing he was with her. Their bond was strong, more intimate and precious than any magical gift.
A word about the author...
Claire Ashgrove has been writing since her early teens and maintained the hobby for twenty years before deciding to leap into the professional world. Her first contemporary novel, Seduction's Stakes, sold to The Wild Rose Press in 2008, where she continues to write steamy, sexy stories for the Champagne and Black Rose lines. Adding to these critically acclaimed romances, Claire’s paranormal romance series, The Curse of the Templars debuted with Tor in January 2012. For those who prefer the more erotic side of romance, she also writes for Berkley Heat under the pen name Tori St. Claire.
Claire lives in Missouri with her two toddler sons, fifteen horses, five cats, and five dogs. In her “free” time, she enjoys cooking, winning at Rummy, studying Ancient Civilizations, and spending quiet moments with her family, including the critters. She credits her success to her family's constant support and endless patience.
To learn more about Claire, visit her on the web at www.claireashgrove.com, or www.toristclaire.com, and at the Cascade Literary Agency blog site, http://cascadeliteraryagency.blogspot.com.
For more in the Inherited Damnation series, you’ll want to read:
Ensnared to Blood
Inherited Damnation, Book IV
by
Claire Ashgrove
Chapter One
Thirty didn’t make Beth Whitley old. It made her worldly. It made her wise. It made her…experienced.
Beth zipped her suitcase shut and stared at the plain black canvas. Precisely why she was returning to Scotland in the middle of winter, her least favorite time of year, when snow would make her miserable. At this point in her life, she should understand her roots. She should possess a solid grasp of where she came from, and more importantly, where she was going.
Correction—she knew where she was going. She needed to connect…with something. Something she caught only fleeting glimpses of and couldn’t quite name, though the yearning often kept her awake at night. Something that came from family and had dissipated when everything else in her life fell apart.
Her impromptu trip didn’t relate to the fact that Scotland made her want to paint again. Nor was she going because her best friend, Emily, insisted Beth’s reoccurring dream of a circle of standing stones meant something.
And she certainly wasn’t taking the ancient scroll of runes Emily had discovered in a tiny metaphysical shop off Broadway just to see Fintan McLaine again. Even if she had nearly lost her head the last time she was there, and a comforting hug became awkward when she turned her head to kiss his cheek and missed, only to plant her lips against the corner of his sensual mouth. The spark was instantaneous, taking root in her gut and spreading like hot coals through her limbs. The complications—not so much. He was handsome in a scholarly, bookish kind of way, and she might be staying in his home this trip, but he wasn’t guiding her into foolishness.
No, she’d left foolishness behind the day she signed her divorce papers. She’d rearranged her caseload, pushed back one pressing trial, and was going to Scotland to follow up on the lead to her heritage that was in the scroll. Nothing more.
With a decisive nod, Beth snapped a lock onto her suitcase’s zipper and set it on the floor. This was for her. Understanding her roots was something she’d wanted to do since college. For the last two years Fintan had been trying to help, but they’d hit a dead-end with the all-too-common surname, Drust. Now that same name was in the falling apart wax-coated parchment that she couldn’t read another lick of, and Fintan could translate runes better than any genealogist in Scotland. He was also the premiere expert on ancient Celt and Pict tribes, the only person who’d been able to trace her lineage as far as they had.
She couldn’t wait to see his reaction to the antiquated leather-bound writings. When she’d phoned, she’d mentioned only that she was coming with some new information. As he had every time, he gave her a warm welcome, cautious remarks about not to get her hopes up. But with his passion for early Scottish ancestry, he’d be elated over the sheer age of the document even if it led them down another dead-end path.
She, however, couldn’t shake the gut-level instinct that in three days she would finally know her origins. Whatever Emily found, it was different than anything Beth had witnessed in Fintan’s vast collection. That her ancestor’s name was included sparked hope she couldn’t stamp out.
Beth rolled her suitcase to the door and turned to survey her small apartment, checking off the to-do list in her head. She’d locked the windows, left her cat at the vet’s, and turned the heat down. As her gaze traversed the tight confines, the same sense of accomplishment she experienced every time she walked through the door swelled the space behind her ribs. She was, at last, her own person.
Not Beth McGillacutty, Dan McGillacutty’s wife and firm associate, but Beth Whitley, who was done following the path everyone else wanted her to take.
The tears for a life of missed opportunities were over. Her dominate ex had been history for two years, but he was finally excommunicated from her career and her heart. She’d rebuilt herself, started her own private law practice, and in another six months, she could put a hefty deposit on a house of her own.
And in a few short hours she could make up for the embarrassing way she’d presented herself the last time she’d seen Fintan McLaine. This time he’d see her in control, not on the edge of total breakdown, grasping at whatever she could to ground herself while the life she understood slipped through her fingers. No more babbling about throwing away art in exchange for law. No more looking back. No more…distractions. He would see her how he should have the first time they met, and that god-awful pity wouldn’t register behind his grey-as-steel eyes.
Besides, she hadn’t scheduled time for distractions.
A smile broke across her face, and she slung her purse over her shoulder. Humming a soft tune, Beth left through the paper-thin front door, heading for the cab that waited to take her to the airport.
****
“Twenty-two. Finally done.” Fintan tossed the roll of white satin ribbon onto his desk and reclined in his chair with a heavy sigh. He eyed his sister with a lifted brow. “My fingers feel like ground beef. How did I let you talk me into this?”
Brigid’s mouth curved into a sly smirk. “Because you thought if you helped, I’d be inclined to change
my ways and join your band of merry-makers.”
He grunted. True enough. Centuries had passed since the last time he and his sister had seen eye-to-eye on anything, but he still held hope that she’d realize the strength that came from their mother’s blood and give up the demonic callings of her soul. He kept trying, and every once in a while she surprised him with something selfless. Like tonight when she’d walked into his office bearing an armful of hand-dipped orange candles, proclaiming they were exactly what his coven needed for the upcoming Imbolc ritual.
She had no plans of attending. Her rite would be far darker. Far more foul than Fintan could likely imagine, though he’d witnessed atrocities over the course of his 2000-plus years of existence.
Still, she offered the gift.
“What’s in it for you?”
Brigid’s smile turned frighteningly angelic. “Why would you think that?”
He tipped his head and looked down the length of his nose, his lips pursing in exasperation. “I haven’t lived with you for five hundred years and not learned a thing or two, Brigid.”
She shrugged. “I’m just looking out for my personal interests.”
“Which would be?”
With a light laugh, Brigid finished the tidy bow she was tying around the final candle and set it aside. She folded her arms across her chest and reclined as well, mirroring his position. The lightheartedness left her expression. Her amber eyes flashed as the fire in the hearth crackled. “There’s another holiday upon us. Another birthday coming. I have no intention of letting another ritual that will damage our father come to pass.”
Not just any birthday—his. Which meant, he held the ability to add another nail to their vile father’s coffin if he managed to get his hands on their mother’s ancient spell. Brigid knew he’d do it in a heartbeat. If it were possible to end his incubus sire’s existence with a knife, Fintan would plunge the blade into Drandar’s black soul without a moment’s hesitation.
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