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Copyright ©2007 by Bronwyn Green
First published in 2007, 2007
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Celtic Fire: Solstice Seduction
ISBN # 978-1-906328-62-7
©Copyright Bronwyn Green 2007
Cover Art by Anne Cain ©Copyright November 2007
Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
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Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning
Fallen Angels: Celtic Fire
SOLSTICE SEDUCTION
Bronwyn Green
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Dedication
To Brynn—my very own Angel
I'd also like to thank Matt, Michele, Jen, Mary, Marti, Mary, Cheryl, Margaret, Jule, Manda, Mom, Cait and my lovely editor Claire. I'm so grateful for all of you.
It really does take a village.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Taco Bell: Taco Bell Corp.
John Lennon: Yoko Ono Lennon
Imagine: Yoko Ono Lennon
New Kids on the Block: SM Productions
Britney Spears: Britney Spears
How the Grinch Stole Christmas: Theodor Seuss Geisel
Prologue
Guns, razor blades, pills, ropes ... The options for suicide were limitless. If one was human. Hell, even the vampires had sunlight and holy water.
Taliesin sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair in frustration. In the beginning, his banishment from Heaven had seemed a lark. As a fallen angel, of course he'd missed his connection to the Divine. It was a throbbing ache that never truly abated, but over time it had dulled.
Humans had quickly filled the void—practically revered him as a god. For a while it had been enough. With his harp, he'd wandered the length and breadth of Britain, performing in the halls of great kings. Legends of his bardic skill still survived today. It was good to be remembered, he supposed. Of course, he had been the one to suggest writing everything down. It often seemed that the most wildly artistic among humankind needed the most guidance.
He'd been more than willing to guide while some of his fallen brethren preferred to thwart. Some had even hated the humans. They'd refused to have any contact with them or worse, sought to harm them. Taliesin merely looked at them as entertainment during his exile. He'd come to enjoy many of them, revelling in the creativity with which their Maker had gifted them.
He'd shared arcane secrets with Cerridwen, advised Arthur and Merlin and seduced Morgan Le Fay ... or perhaps she'd been the seductress. It had been centuries ago. He'd imbibed with Byron and Shelley and served as inspiration for Austen. He'd watched Michelangelo, Rembrandt and Waterhouse create masterpieces. He'd listened as Mozart composed his Requiem Mass and while Lennon wrote Imagine. He'd been a sounding board for Tolkien and had read all of the drafts of all of Yeats’ work and Neruda's as well.
Now the world was filled with talentless hacks. Faced with the Britney Spears and Paris Hiltons of the world, what was the Angel of Inspiration to do? Well, the Fallen Angel of Inspiration, anyway. Providing inspiration for the humans had been easier in his angelic form. Maybe that was part of the problem ... perhaps if he still held his place in Heaven, he would never have had to be tortured with the feeble musical attempts of the New Kids on the Block. Another thought occurred to him. Perhaps the Divine Being had noticed that he'd been enjoying his banishment on earth and now saw to it that songs by those Simpson girls remained painfully lodged in his head. Maybe the real punishment had just begun. More than ever, he longed for the comforts of Heaven and reconnection with the Divine.
It wasn't simply that he was disgusted and bored. If he was honest with himself, he'd admit that he was lonely. He never thought he'd grow attached to the humans, but he had. Well, some of them anyway. But their lives were over in the blink of an eye. The pain of losing them year after year had become worse with every death.
Shivering Taliesin buttoned the top button of his jacket. Chile with Neruda would be far warmer than this backwater town in Michigan. He'd come here to hear a young poet, but the coffee house had burned down, so instead he found himself walking along the length of a nearby railroad track half-wishing for an oncoming train. Would this exile never end?
Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes. I'm sorry, all right? I'm fucking sorry already. What the hell do I need to do to prove it?
A blinding flash of blue-white light seared his eyes.
"You might want to consider not cursing when you address our Lord."
Taliesin stifled a sigh. “Hello Gabriel."
The angel walked at his side. “Haven't you tired of you banishment? Aren't you ready to come home?"
Taliesin stopped and stared at his friend. “Did you not just hear me? Isn't that why you're here?"
Gabriel smiled patiently. “Not exactly.” Holding up his hand, he immobilised Taliesin as the railroad tracks began to rumble. “This is your last chance to figure it out, my friend."
"Figure what out?"
The angel shook his head, his eyes sad. Gabriel waved his hand toward Taliesin and he found himself standing in the middle of the vibrating tracks.
"Funny.” He fought against the supernatural hold. “Release me, Gabriel."
"I cannot. If you are ever to regain your place within the Kingdom, you must learn what He sent you here to learn."
Rage flooded Taliesin's veins. “This isn't a fucking fieldtrip. He banished me."
The whistle of a not-so-distant train sounded, and the ground beneath his feet shuddered. He attempted to use his few remaining angelic powers to break Gabriel's hold, but the angel had done something to nullify them. Bastard.
"Release me!” he demanded again.
Gabriel merely held his gaze. “Heed what you're here to learn."
"Yes, do be cryptic. It's always so helpful."
As the engine drew closer, the blinding headlight pulled his focus from the angel. The painful, metallic squeal of brakes split the quiet n
ight drowning out his thundering heart. The engineer had obviously seen him, but there was no way he'd be able to stop in time. Taliesin sighed. He might be immortal, but immortality didn't mean getting hit by a train wouldn't hurt. Someday, Gabriel would pay for this.
Chapter One
Emerson Matthews watched her patient through the two-way mirror, and he gazed right back. Obviously, he knew he was being observed. Stretching out his long legs he leaned back in the chair and stared as if he could bore a hole through the glass. He shoved his shoulder-length hair from his face in irritation—chestnut coloured waves she itched to drag her fingers through. At this distance it was impossible to discern the colour of his eyes, but she had no trouble making out his high cheekbones and gorgeous mouth.
It was impossible to look at him and not imagine how his lips would feel against hers. He pushed up the sleeves of his knit shirt to reveal beautifully sculpted forearms. With his broad chest, she couldn't help but wonder what he looked like beneath his clothes. She'd bet his legs and ass were as tightly muscled as his arms.
She sighed. Getting worked up over a patient was number one on the no-no list for therapists everywhere. She'd clearly gone too long without sex and it was affecting her work. The slightly less rational part of her brain insisted that she was merely experiencing the logical response to being confronted with the single most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. No matter what he looked like, she needed to get her mind out of his pants and help him. Focus, Emerson. Focus.
She reread the scant information on his chart. Having attempted suicide by train, Taliesin No-Last-Name was brought into St. Mary's Psychiatric Facility late last night by the local sheriff's department. The train operator insisted that he'd hit the man, but the guy didn't have a scratch on him. Even his clothes were fine. He'd complained of a headache, but that was it. He'd also initially demanded—loudly—to leave. But that wasn't going to happen, not until he'd been thoroughly evaluated. Adjusting her glasses, she turned the knob and opened the door.
The man rose to his feet with a loose-limbed grace and offered her his hand as he read her name tag. “Dr. Matthews. I'm assuming it's too much to hope that you've come to release me."
"Why don't we talk a bit first?” Trying to place his slight accent, she gestured to the chair behind him as she sank into the one opposite him. He didn't bother to hide his annoyance as he sat and stared at her while she straightened the forms on her clipboard. His eyes were grey. Definitely grey. God, he was gorgeous. Focus.
"Despite what it likely says in your file, I wasn't attempting suicide."
She glanced at the chart. “I'm not sure how else to interpret standing in front of an oncoming train."
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I was pushed."
"By whom?"
He shifted uneasily. “A friend."
"Some friend,” she muttered.
His lips curved in a bone-melting grin. “Yeah. He can be a real bastard."
Emerson stared at him trying to remember where she'd been going with that line of questioning.
Train. Death wish. Right. “The engineer's statement doesn't mention anyone else."
Taliesin tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “It wouldn't. My friend is rarely visible to humans."
Rarely visible to humans. It was going to be a long night.
Emerson glanced out the window behind him and watched as huge fluffy snowflakes drifted to the ground. She might as well get comfortable. It wasn't like she had anywhere to go—besides, she'd volunteered for the three weeks prior to Christmas, just so she could get time off over the holidays to spend with her family.
She studied the man across from her. He looked completely lucid, but his comments so far belied that. “Let's start with a history,” she said turning to a fresh intake sheet. “Name?"
He shifted in his chair and she tried not to admire the way the worn fabric of his jeans encased his legs. “Taliesin."
"Last name?"
"I don't have one."
Emerson tried not to frown. “What about your parents? What's their surname?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a lock of hair partially covering his eye. “I don't have parents in the strictest sense of the word."
Emerson fought the urge to brush his hair aside and see if it was as soft as it looked. “You're an orphan?” she asked. Perhaps she'd follow in Angelina Jolie's footsteps and adopt him ... Okay, this was inexcusable. She was a professional, for God's sake. Obviously she needed to get laid and quickly. This inability to focus was interfering with her job.
"Not exactly.” He stood and walked to the window.
She tried not to groan. His ass was as perfect as she'd imagined it would be. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Age?"
"Not sure."
She studied his reflection in the window pane. If she had to guess, she'd say late twenties to early thirties. Time for a different tack. “I've noticed you've got a bit of an accent. Where are you from?"
"Lots of different places.” His lips curved in a sad smile as he stared out the window. “But I spent my formative years in Wales."
That was an interesting coincidence. Her grandmother was from Wales. Of course, her sister, Beckett, would tell her there were no such things as coincidences, but Emerson didn't buy into it. There were no mystical forces guiding hers or anyone else's life. If God existed, and that was a huge if, as far as she was concerned, He sure as hell didn't care about any of the people he'd supposedly created. If He did, He'd actually bother to answer prayers.
The pain of loss clogged her throat, but she pushed it away and stood, nearly colliding with the man she was supposed to be evaluating. Taliesin placed his hand under her elbow to steady her.
"Are you all right?” he asked, concern darkening his eyes.
The warmth of his body seeped through her blouse, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into him and forget. He stared into her eyes as if he could find the answers to the mysteries of the universe.
She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “I'm fine,” she managed and stepped back.
"You look upset."
Forcing a smile she shook her head. “Nope. It's all good."
"I could help you—if you'd let me."
The patient offering to help the therapist—well done, Emerson. Way to keep your own emotions in check and focus on the person in need.
The door to the intake room opened and Molly, one of the interns stuck her head in. “Hey Emerson? It's time for group—you coming?"
"I'll be there in just a minute. Can you get Thomas to help you set up the instruments?” Grateful for the interruption, she turned back to Taliesin. “Why don't I show you to your room so you can get settled in, and we'll pick this up later?"
"Music therapy?” he asked, ignoring her question, his eyes bright with interest.
She nodded.
"I'd like to come along, if that's all right."
Taliesin stifled a grin. He'd like a hell of a lot more than that from the prickly therapist, but he'd settle for this. For now.
She adjusted her glasses as she considered his request. Later he'd slide those naughty-librarian frames from her face and pull the clip from her hair, freeing the deep red tresses. Idly he wondered how long it would be and how it would feel sliding through his fingers. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and he shoved his hands in his pockets before he was tempted to find out the answers to both questions.
He'd planned on leaving the mental health facility as soon as he'd arrived, but then he'd gotten a glimpse of Dr. Emerson Matthews. True, he'd always had a thing for red heads, but this was more than her hair colour. There was something about this woman that called to him on a primal level. Despite her capable, determined demeanour, he sensed a wounded soul. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and promise that he'd make everything better.
As he'd waited for her to finish her observation from behind the two way mirror, he'd cursed Ga
briel. Had he done something to make him want this woman—this human—beyond reason? Taliesin had never been opposed to sleeping with human woman. Besides the act of creating, sex was as close as to the Divine as the fallen could get.
He'd been overcome with lust plenty of times in his endless exile, but he'd never wanted more than sex and companionship. For instance, he treasured the time he spent verbally sparring with Jane and reading her drafts of Northanger Abbey. He hadn't been able to get enough of Janis Joplin. While not the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, he'd loved watching her compose and perform. She'd also been insatiable in bed. But, inexplicably, he wanted so much more than that from Emerson. He shook his head. Some kind of Angel of Inspiration he was. He couldn't even verbalize what it was he wanted, which again made him wonder if Gabriel had something to do with this.
Emerson shifted, drawing his attention back to her petite frame and her bottomless blue eyes. He wondered if she realised she chewed her lower lip when she was deep in thought. The full lower lip he'd give just about anything to taste. The same one he'd like to pull between his teeth and nibble.
Smiling gently, she nodded toward the door. “The music room is this way."
Taliesin fell into step beside her, shortening his strides to match hers as they navigated the thickly carpeted hallways. He'd prefer to walk behind her and watch the gentle sway of her full hips, but thanks to Gabriel he was a patient in a mental facility. Openly gawking at his doctor's ass—no matter how gorgeous it was—wasn't going to win him any points. It also wasn't bound to convince her he wasn't crazy, and that was something he needed to accomplish if he hoped to do more than imagine how sweet she tasted.
The gentle rhythm of a drum and some other percussion accompanied by a strumming guitar drifted from the open door at the end of the hall. He wanted to touch the instruments almost as much as he wanted to touch Emerson. Glancing at the woman next to him, he knew which was more likely.
Emerson motioned him through the door. The young woman who'd interrupted them earlier sat with a djembe between her knees and played a gentle accompaniment to a young man with an acoustic guitar while an older woman shook a set of carved maracas. Emerson smiled and guided Taliesin through the door.
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