by Chevon Gael
"Paddy O'Roarke! Mind your manners. There's ladies present.” Old Flannigan turned to Rhian. “Never mind him. Sean O'Casey will be by in a bit. He's a fair hand with the Uilleann pipes. Sometimes Davy Butler brings his low whistle and they have a session in the corner by the fireplace. Of course, Mrs. Mac's son, Arthur—that be the Mrs. Mac where you're staying—he fiddles if Sean is buying. Ah, but it's all grand craic."
Kat leaned close to Rhian and whispered, “Can you translate?"
"Basically, the local band comes in. They play, drink, and everybody has a good time."
"Cool. Just like Saturday night at Kitty O'Sheas."
"Something like that, only without the after party where everyone strips down and swims naked in the Boston Common swan pond and gets banged by Jimmy Reardon."
"Hey, that was just a rumor. You can't prove it was me. And as for banging James Reardon, I know for a fact the principal male dancer of the BCDC was on the rebound from being rejected by its female principal dancer. Ring any bells?"
It did, but Rhian chose not to comment.
"Anyway, let's stay."
"Let's not. Try to remember we have a date with a rock tomorrow."
It was Paddy who answered on Kat's behalf. “You don't want to be doing that, now."
Rhian drained her glass, set it down on the faded mahogany, and pushed it toward Mickey with a shake of her head, indicating she was done for the night.
"And why is that?"
Kat found her tongue. “Rhian, you've got to listen to this. It's just too funny."
Rhian sighed. She didn't think there was anything funny about being up for nearly two days and wearing the same leather jacket, tank, and jeans for the same amount of time. The excited rush of travel had worn off. Mrs. McCarthy's four-poster bed and the tiny room that must have been built around it were beginning to look pretty good.
"Can I take pass on the local lore, Kat? I'm bagged and I need to go to bed,” she looked past Kat over to Paddy. “Alone!"
Kat leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Paddy says the local kids sneak in at night and piss on the stone."
"Eeww!” Rhian felt her face morph into a grimace at the mere thought. “Ick. And here I thought you were going to entertain my poor, North American brain with something more palatable like trolls and unicorns."
Mickey piped up. “You, Paddy O'Roarke. Stop that nonsense. It's the Cluricaun's Curse you should be warning her about."
"A clerk's hand what?"
"Cluricaun, Kat. My granny used to feed me gory tales about fae folk enchanting children who didn't eat their veggies."
"Mick Flannigan, who listens to that piss n'wind crap anymore? There's no more a curse on the stone than ... than there's unwatered whiskey behind yer bar."
Rhian and Kat turned their backs and cooed, “Ooooh!” and giggled. “I think we're outa here before a donnybrook breaks out."
"Donny who?"
"Never mind, Kat.” She nudged Kat toward the door, leaving the men in heated discussion. But as Rhian nudged, Kat suddenly refused to budge. Horny Paddy had left his prime spot at the bar and made his way over to where they stood. He snaked his arm around Kat and whispered something into her ear. Kat giggled and nodded. Rhian braced herself for the brush off.
"Do you mind if I catch up with you later?"
"Do I have any choice? Just make sure Romeo knows where to bring you—after."
Kat winked at Rhian, then snuggled up to black-haired Paddy. “So tell me about this curse, my fine, Irish laddie..."
Rhian watched as Paddy led Rhian out the pub's entrance and into the cool, calm night. A chill gust of wind wandered in through the open door. Rhian shivered and rubbed her arms through her leather jacket. There was something unsettling about the mention of the cluricaun. Rhian hadn't thought about Granny's childhood fairy tales in years. She was never sure if Granny believed they were real or simply one of the many myths Granny's family had carried to Boston generations ago when the MacNamaras left Ireland in search of greener pastures.
Greener than Ireland? Rhian felt that hard to believe the first time she set eyes on her ancestor's homeland. Shades of green, rich tones, and indescribable hues of emerald painted the landscape between the Dublin airport and Blarney Village in Cork.
You've Irish eyes, Rhian, lass. The color of the wild, green pastures with flashes of fairy light.
Of course Granny Mairdrid had macular degeneration and was blind by the time she was sixty, but it didn't stop her toes from tapping out the rhythms of jigs and reels at the weekly Saturday night ceili in the old neighborhood, or teaching Rhian a three-hop or a battering step. Granny, who passed on her most precious possession to Rhian—her traditions and a worn pair of lambskin gillies wrapped in sheep's wool and stored in a silk bag. The same gillies Rhian wore the year she became national Celtic dance champion.
A low, mournful cry came from the back of the pub. Uilleann pipes. Rhian turned and followed the sound. Seated by the open fireplace were two men. She assumed the piper was Sean O'Casey. The man next to him limbered his fingers and licked his lips before plucking a tin or low whistle from his lap. A murmur through crowd confirmed it was Davy Butler.
They were handsome men—tall, black-haired, and dark eyed. They didn't speak to each other, merely a nod of salutation. Together the men and their instruments settled on a ballad. The crowd in the pub abandoned the bar in favor of a seat near the music.
Hypnotic and haunting, ancient and sad. The music reached deep inside her and spoke to her soul. Then a tenor voice joined the melody. A wavering voice, poignant and lilting and definitely straining under a little too much of the drink. A Gaelic voice singing words in a language and dialect Rhian hadn't heard in nearly a quarter of a century. A sudden sadness, along with a huge wave of regret, washed over Rhian. She'd forgotten Granny's words and what they meant. Somewhere along the way the traditions had faded. Granny had passed away and Rhian's career took her further from the old ways. Only the dance remained and the clock was ticking down on that, too.
Bone tired and now melancholy, Rhian left Flannigan's, walked the quarter mile back to Mrs. Mac's, and slipped in through the guest entrance. She settled into the oak four-poster bed and snuggled into the down comforter. She stared into the darkness for several minutes, trying to wind down and not obsess over her schedule for the next two weeks, along with what she felt sure were all the things that could go wrong in the days leading up to the show. Finally she willed her brain into placid thoughts. In the moments before she dozed off, she imagined herself by the banks of an enchanted stream, wearing pink, satin slippers and dancing before a pair of adoring black eyes.
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CHAPTER 3
"Rhian ... Rhian, my love. Come to me. I'm here. I'm waiting."
She was lost in a sea of mist. She looked down. The ground beneath her was gone. Not gone, exactly. It had slipped away until it was only a tiny spec in the distance, as if she were in an airplane and watching it fade from site. Yet she wasn't afraid of falling. She hovered lightly, bound by a blanket of fog. Then the blanket was swept away to reveal what she could only describe as a slice of heaven. A green bank of soft grasses by a trickling stream. A large willow tree with a full flush of finger thin branches so long that their ends dipped into the water.
She parted the branches. A figure of a man stood outlined in the shadows. He turned then and Rhian could see his face. A fair face with shining eyes, coal black with a tiny glint of starlight. The hint of a breeze rustled his full head of dark, thick hair, causing the strands to fall rakishly across his wide forehead. His full lips parted into a wide smile displaying a dazzling set of strong, white teeth. He was dressed in a simple cream-colored shirt, open from neck to waist, revealing a mass of curling, dark hair across his chest. His plain, brown breeches rode teasingly across his hips and tight at the crotch. So tight that Rhian could see the outline of a very impressive package—one that grew larger as he approached her. He walked towar
d her with leisurely stealth. His darkly tanned, knee-high boots left no tracks on the damp grass. In truth, he was the most sensually elegant rogue Rhian had ever seen. And she wanted him—bad!
The way he looked at her turned her knees to water. Her mons twitched in anticipation. Her breasts tingled and the nipples pursed against the bodice of the short diaphanous slip she wore, a garment not unlike the newly designed costume she was to wear performing at the gala. Yet she knew she'd worn this garment before, been to this place before, and with this man. This man who advanced with purpose.
The black eyes were deep and hungry, the kind of hunger that had only one satisfactory outcome. Rhian felt herself blush. No man had ever looked at her like that. No one—except him. She felt herself grow wet with desire. Her entire sex throbbed.
He opened his arms to her. Rhian did the same. She was in his arms and, it seemed, she was trying to make him part of her. She kissed him with an unexplained urgency. He returned the sentiment in kind with animal-like fury. His hands fondled her through her meager gown. She made no protest as they slipped under her dress. Warm and firm was his touch, and he knew just where to touch her. With practiced ease his fingers brushed her pale bush of blond curls before skimming her soaked vulva.
"Ah, mo boidheach—my beauty—your dew-pot is overflowing."
"It's been waiting for you. Waiting such a long time."
It was her voice. The words came from her mouth. The mouth that found any inch of her lover's bare skin. And oh, how he tasted! Sweet, yet spicy. Fresh sweat beaded his forehead. Funky sex pheromones oozed from his pores. His heartbeat matched hers, a crazy rhythm worthy of any free-set jig and the thumping of a bodhran drum. Together they sank to the ground, cradled by lush, green grass.
No protest came from her lips as her loose gown slipped off her shoulders. The sheer folds of her dress pooled above her waist. She was nearly naked to his hungry eyes. And she suspected his eyes saw many things.
His head dipped to her abdomen. He nuzzled his rough cheek against her mons.
"Soft as swan's down." He buried his nose between her vulva. "With a scent of honeysuckle and fresh summer rain. Oh, my beauty. How your plump nether lips blush at the nearness of my mouth. Ah, look how your tender bud swells and rises to greet me. It trembles at the touch of my lips." And so did she—writhing shamelessly as his tongue lapped at her clit. She pressed his head between her legs, urging him to possess her.
"Patience, mine own! First my tongue shall dance across your bud. My lips shall suckle at your swollen ripeness until the lust claims you. Then I shall drink the sweetness from your well before I unleash my prog and brand you as my own."
Rhian felt helpless at the expert ministrations of her lover. He knew exactly where to touch her, how and when. It was as if she were watching herself on a screen. But that couldn't be her, writhing against the dark head feasting between her thighs. Where those really her sighs rolling across the air, carried by the gentle breeze and rustling through the green willow's leaves? Sighs so passionate that the stems buckled and faded to autumn gold under the burden of viewing her wanton, naked flesh. Then her lover raised his head, his clean-shaven face wet with the juice of her sex. Rhian saw herself raise her arm and brush her thumb across his cheek. The man's lips captured her thumb and sucked it noisily. She could smell her pungent fluid on the wind. The scent electrified her. Her mirror image reached for the man's breeches. He covered her hand and helped her loosen the laces. She could feel the soft, tanned hide under her fingertips. The warmth of his body radiated off him. The evidence of his own arousal was unmistakable. Boldly she trailed her fingers over the bulge. It was hot and alive under her touch.
"Surely you are the most potent of the cluricaun! How I long to feel the heat of your skin next to mine. Nay, deny me no longer!"
The adoring eyes sparkled and deepened. The pleasurable smile turned to hunger.
"Say my name, lovely nymph. I need to hear your voice. Say it!"
"Seamus."
"Rhian..."
"Say it again."
"Seamus!"
"Rhian, wake up!"
Her eyes opened to find an anxious Kat bending over her. Although Rhian was not surprised to see Kat still wearing yesterday's clothes, she was alarmed at seeing her friend in their bedroom with the door wide open. Worse yet, she saw the burly Mrs. Mac in the background, a disapproving frown on her pudgy face. The woman stood with her mannish hands parked on her wide hips and wrapped in the most unflattering chenille robe Rhian had ever seen. The waking nightmare was topped off with a mesh of black netting covering her silver hair, along with several metal clips, which threatened to topple off her head. The woman's beady eyes darted around the room, finally settling on the vintage double-hung window frame where the chintz curtains were still drawn.
"I think it was only a bad dream, Mrs. Mac.” Kat explained tactfully, than added, “She'll be okay. I'll stay with her."
Their host craned her wrinkled neck and gave the room and its occupants one last glance, then grabbed the doorknob. “Breakfast in an hour,” she croaked before closing the door.
"Eesh!” Kat grimaced and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Now there's an argument for moisturizer. Did you see all her dry, crinkly skin? That woman has a leather chest."
Rhian sat up and pushed back the comforter. Kat flung herself down beside Rhian and bounced up and down on the mattress a couple of times.
"I don't know what she was thinking, but you can't fart in this bed without the springs creaking."
"You just got in, I assume."
Kat yawned. “You got that right. I was just putting my key in the door when I heard you thrashing around and yelling. I hoped against hope that you might be getting laid but, alas...” She sighed and began to peel off her clothes.
Rhian tried to put the timing together. “So you weren't here at all last night."
"No, Mommy.” Then she turned and blinked at Rhian. “Are we jealous or just disappointed?"
"And you had to use the key to get into the room, meaning I locked the door."
"Yes, Mommy."
"And the window hasn't been opened."
Kat shrugged. “What's with the inquisition? I need to shower and grab some sleep."
Rhian wasn't sure how to answer her, so she quickly changed the subject. “How'd it go with horny Paddy?"
Kat answered with a dissatisfied sneer.
"That good, huh."
Kat held up her hand and wiggled her little finger. “Like that! When they say Ireland is full of little people, they ain't kidding."
Rhian pouted in mock sympathy. “Poor Kat. Cheer up. Master Reardon will be along sometime next week. In the meantime, we'll walk into town later and go shopping. I hear there's a local market that sells woolen shawls and sweaters."
"Okay. I'm up for shopping anytime. Let's go and do the castle thing and get it out of the way. Who's driving?"
"No one, unless you want me to attempt a thirty-six point turn out of that driveway.” Rhian nodded toward the cut-grass path that acted as guest parking according to the hand-painted sign leaning up against the stone wall at the edge of Mrs. Mac's property.
"You want us to walk up that hill to the castle,” Kat whined and moaned at the prospect.
"Hey, I thought you wanted to walk off the stout."
"Yeah, but that was before the whiskey shots and my unfortunate encounter with the teeny-peeny."
"How bad, Kat?"
"Mild in comparison to my other hangovers, but not enough to keep me from smoking my credit cards.” Kat sat up. “I'm off to hit the shower."
Rhian waited until Kat was in the bathroom with the water running before she got out of bed and went over to the window. She pushed the curtains back and examined the window. There was no sign that it had been opened last night or anytime recently for that matter. The latch was closed and had, in fact, been painted over. The caulking was weathered. It must have been a dream after all.
She closed her eyes a
nd leaned her head against the pane. For all the sleep she did manage to get last night she was still tired. She cringed at the thought of having to go to the castle and check out the preparations for the performance. Whether she climbed the castle stairs to kiss the wretched stone was still up for consideration. Maybe she'd feel better after breakfast. She opened her eyes and stared at the castle turrets in the distance. It was inexplicably unsettling to have something so imposing looking down on her. Yet her ancestry admired and appreciated the castle for what it was—part of Ireland, part of Granny, and part of her. She closed the curtains with a quick whoosh!
She unpacked her clothes and determined what needed to be pressed and what could wait for until the rest of the Company arrived. The costumer would be bringing her performance dance dresses. Rhian unzipped her shoe bag and removed her concert shoes. She didn't trust the entourage with her shoes. They always traveled with her, especially Granny's gillies. She laid her shoes out on the floor at the end of the bed. Various practice shoes, three pairs of performance hard shoes and toe-walkers, pointe shoes and spare ribbons and laces. She had to schedule a practice as soon as the stage was installed, which might not be for another week. In the meantime, she hoped to find a local dance school where she could work out.
Right now, all her body wanted was a long, relaxing soak. For some reason she couldn't explain, she felt physically exhausted and sore, as if she'd fallen off the stage and landed on a cement floor. Rhian assumed it was all the time in the plane, sitting in a small, cramped space. She hoped Kat hadn't used up their ration of hot water. The bathroom door opened and Kat emerged, a cloud of steam escaping behind her.
"It's all yours, girlfriend,” Kat said as she bent over and wrapped her long, wet hair in a towel.
"Did you leave me any hot water?"
