“Nay,” he said, his voice lacking any conviction as she stroked him. His pulse pounded in his ears as his erection grew heavy.
With a laugh low in her throat, the witch stretched out on the fog-shrouded ground. Beckoning to him, she bent her legs until her gossamer dress fell back to reveal her belly and the fair hair shielding her center. Patrick stared for a long moment, his mind urging him to flee even as his body surged him forward.
“Come, Braunach,” she whispered.
Patrick fell on her, drove into her as she clutched at him. He could feel nothing but her body grasping him deep within her, drawing him deeper into her unholy heat. Tighter and tighter she pulled, and Patrick felt his soul mixing with her black one. Vile thoughts slithered into his mind, selfish thoughts of conquest and triumph, and his belly churned.
He knew his release was close, could feel his body tightening, and leaned back on his arms. “Nay, witch!”
She laughed, the sound like sharp nails across his brain. “Aye, Patrick.”
She wrapped her arms around him, holding tight to his back as he began to lose control. He could feel the burning start, high up on his left shoulder blade. Tingling, itching, his skin felt like it was on fire. Her fingers branded him and he roared, his control gone as he spilled his seed deep and high within her.
Patrick sat up, his hand tight over his mouth as he fought the nausea roiling in his belly. Devlin still slept, his face wearing a frown from his nest of blankets on the floor. Patrick stood on shaking legs and then he lifted his son back up on the small pallet. Aye, he looked like a MacDonald. But Patrick couldn’t ignore the features he’d inherited from his mother.
He went back to the bed, careful not to roll over onto his back, onto his scar. God, he’d been so weak. He’d let the witch lead him into darkness and he’d dumbly followed. That first night was the only one of any clarity in his memory. He knew that those two weeks had been full of their coupling, in every way he’d ever imagined and some he hadn’t from his limited experience with the seasoned harlots of the dell. He curled on his side, his arms wrapped around his belly as he prayed.
Forgive me, God. Forgive me, Devlin.
Chapter 5
Tara heard a child’s voice, the sound sweet and inquisitive, and shifted on the sweet-smelling sheets.
“Who is she, Mama?” the voice asked.
Was she was back at the behavior lab? That couldn’t be right. Despite the fact her entire body still felt like it was sleeping, her mind reasoned that none of those children ever spoke so clearly. She stirred and shifted, the sheets rustling beneath her as they gave up their fresh lavender scent. She froze. Lavender?
“Tara.” An adult voice, this one feminine and soft, reached through to her. “Tara, are you awake?”
Her eyes snapped open and she stared up at the unfamiliar coffered ceiling. Light from an oil lamp beside the bed flickered over the walls. No, she wasn’t in the behavior lab. Where was she?
“Tara?” the woman asked again.
Tara blinked and focused on the pretty blond woman sitting beside her as the rest of the room slowly swam into focus. Crisp primary colors dressed the walls, matching the bedding that Tara nervously clutched in her hands. “Y-yes?”
The woman, Tara guessed she was near her own age, smiled. “Good evening.”
Tara ran a hand over rumpled clothes and hesitantly returned the expression. “Where am I?”
A little boy with glossy reddish curls peeped around the woman, his blue eyes round. “You’re in Ireland!”
The woman clicked her tongue. “Bryce, please.” She eased the boy off of the bed. “Go see your Papa.” After the boy withdrew to a spot a few feet from the bed, the woman smiled at Tara again. “Hello, Tara. I’m Brianna MacDonald.”
“MacDonald.” Tara leaned up on her elbows, her fogged mind trying to make sense of this. It struck her then, the reason the name was familiar to her. “Oh! The man who brought me here?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Tara. He’s my brother-in-law. Patrick MacDonald.”
Tara nodded absently. Her brother-in-law. Tara glanced at this woman, Brianna. She seemed kind, and by her accent Tara guessed her to be British. She was dressed like something out of a PBS production of Jane Austen though, and her hair was coiled on top of her head. Something struck the back of her mind again, something from last night. Patrick MacDonald had said something about 1814? Her head began to pound.
“This isn’t right,” Tara said. “I want to go home.”
Brianna shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to Patrick about that.”
“Patrick MacDonald. That man.” Tara snorted. “He… he took me from my home.”
Brianna nodded at that. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Tara blinked. “That’s it?” She sat up straighter and flicked her tangled hair out of her eyes. “You’re sorry?”
Brianna stood. “You’re welcome to stay here. Patrick will be back tomorrow.”
The woman said nothing more, and Tara didn’t know what she could say that would help her make any sense of this.
She looked around the room. It was obviously a child’s bedroom, decorated with bright colors and simple, sturdy furniture. There were no lights in the room but the oil lamp though, not in the ceiling and not visible in the hallway. She glanced at Brianna’s dress once more as she neared the doorway. 1814, Patrick MacDonald had told her. Could that be true?
“Brianna, wait,” Tara called.
The woman stilled, one hand braced on the doorframe.
“Is this really 1814?” Tara asked.
She smiled and nodded.
“Yes.” Brianna stepped toward her once more. “I’m not from here either, Tara. I’m from your time.”
That pounding started in Tara’s head again. “What?”
To Tara’s astonishment, Brianna winked. “I’ll explain it if you wish, but you’ve already had a bit of a shock today.”
“You’re not kidding,” Tara muttered.
Brianna’s smile widened. “If you’re hungry, just let me know. I’ll be happy to get you something from the kitchen.”
Tara nodded absently and Brianna left. Tara stood and crossed to the window. She couldn’t see anything since it was already dark outside. How long had she been asleep? Embarrassment struck her. She must have fainted. Then, how…? Oh God, the man had carried her here? That was just great.
1814, she marveled. Ireland. And Patrick MacDonald would be back for her tomorrow? Well, Mr. tall and handsome had better brace himself. She was going home tomorrow no matter what.
Tara awoke in the narrow bed, surprisingly well-rested despite sleeping in her clothes. The sheets were soft and fine, and the pillow was superior. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find in the nineteenth century, but the luxury surprised her.
She rose and stretched. Peering into the mirror on top of the child-sized dresser, she ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She had to use the bathroom, but doubted modern luxury would extend to modern plumbing. She searched her brain, reviewing what little she knew of the nineteenth century. Chamber pots, maybe? Yuck.
Voices came from down the hall, and she recognized one as the little boy she’d met last night. The deeper tone must be the boy’s father, though she hadn’t seen him yet. And what about Patrick MacDonald? She fumed. Where was that man? The one who dragged her from her home?
She crossed to the door and opened it. The little boy stood there, staring up at her with those huge blue eyes again.
“The lady’s awake, Mama!” he shouted.
Tara smiled and crouched down to his level. “Hello. Can you tell me where the… Where the chamber pot is?”
The child laughed and ran back down the hall. “The lady has to use the loo!”
Her cheeks flamed as she stood. The loo? That was British for bathroom, right? She started. Bathroom?
“Good morning, Tara.”
Tara smiled at the blond woman, Brianna. She once more wore a l
ong dress, this one white with little blue flowers.
“Good morning, Brianna.”
Brianna leaned closer. “Bryce said you’d like to refresh yourself?”
“Yes, please.”
Brianna turned and led her down the hallway to another door. She gave Tara a wink and opened it, showing her a large bathroom with all the comforts of home. Tara gaped at the tiled floor and gleaming tub. And a toilet!
“How…?”
“I admit I bring some of the future back with me every time I visit.”
Tara shook her head. “The future?”
Brianna shrugged. “Oh, the dell has its charms.” She smiled brightly. “But that’s no reason to live without modern conveniences, is it?”
Again, Tara just stared at her. The woman seemed sane and normal, just as she had last night. And yet… In all her studies of psychological disorders Tara had never read of anyone who thought they could travel through time on a whim. She was smack in the middle of a cuckoo clock.
“Th-thank you,” Tara nodded.
Brianna let her in the bathroom and closed the door, giving Tara her privacy. Tara opened the lid to the toilet, expecting to see what? she couldn’t imagine. There was nothing but clear water in the bowl. “Huh.”
She saw to her morning duties and washed her face in the marble sink. Still no lights in here, but lovely sconces stood at the ready with candles when the sunshine didn’t come through the window as it did now. Tara raked her fingers through her hair and sighed into the mirror. She opened one of the vanity drawers and found a stash of ribbons. Guessing Brianna wouldn’t mind the theft, she withdrew one of pink and gathered her hair into a ponytail.
Birdsongs came through the open window, drawing her to look outside. Last night it had been dark, and that was frightening enough. Now that the sun shone she feared what she would see outside.
Her heart skipping a beat, she pushed aside the lacy curtain and saw nothing strange. Just a lovely view of trees and grass and flowers, and a landscape rich in color. The fresh scent of the air was surprising. Brianna wasn’t wrong. This place had its charms indeed.
She left the bathroom and continued down the hall toward what must be the living area of the house. The little boy’s chatter reached her first, followed by Brianna’s patient responses to his seemingly endless questions. She heard her name mentioned. Little surprise there. She stepped into the kitchen and stood. This room looked modern, as well. Brianna took a pitcher of milk out of the wood-paneled refrigerator and poured a glass for her son.
“Hello,” she smiled in Tara’s direction.
Tara nodded and came to stand by the wide oak table.
“Hi, Tara,” the boy said. “You missed Papa. He went to the workshop. He makes shoes. All the MacDonalds make shoes. I’m Bryce!”
Tara blinked as she sought to process the wealth of information Bryce threw at her.
“Hello, Bryce. Thank you for letting me use your room.”
He gave a careless shrug. “I slept with Mama and Papa.” He rolled his eyes. “But Papa takes up so much room.”
Tara knew that his father was Patrick MacDonald’s brother, and no doubt he was as large a man as her abductor. She sat across from Bryce and pondered her next step.
“Would you like some tea, Tara?” Brianna asked.
She perked up at the offer. Caffeine? Oh, yes.
“Tea would be great, Brianna. Thank you.”
Brianna set a basket of warm scones on the table and Tara took one and began to eat. Tea and cinnamon scones. The scents, the tastes. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel like she was back in her favorite coffee shop back in Indianapolis.
She watched the boy, enchanted by his careful manners as he ate. And by his milk moustache. He grinned at her around a mouthful of scone and she easily smiled back. He was a charmer. She stiffened as she recalled her talk with Patrick at the hospital. Charmer. Just like his uncle.
“Patrick is coming this morning, Tara,” Brianna said.
Tara jumped. Could the woman read minds as well as travel to the future?
“Oh. Good. That man…” She snapped her mouth shut as she noticed Bryce’s eyes fixed on her. “Never mind.”
“I know he took you without your consent.”
“He abducted me, Brianna!” Tara calmed herself and took a sip from her cup of very fine tea. “Look. I know he’s your brother-in-law. But he kidnapped me.”
Bryce clicked his tongue and guilt nagged at her.
“I shouldn’t speak ill of your uncle, Bryce,” Tara said quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Uncle Patrick would never hurt you, Tara.” Bryce looked her square in the eye and she wished she could believe him. “He would never hurt anybody.”
Before she could ponder the validity of the boy’s assurance, a knock came at the front door. Brianna wiped her hands on a dishtowel and left the kitchen. Tara braced herself, suspecting the visitor would be the man in question.
“Good mornin’, Brianna,” she heard Patrick say in his now-familiar voice. “Is the girl awake?”
She didn’t hear Brianna’s reply. She drained her cup of tea and stood, bracing her hands on the sturdy, lovely carved chair. Modern conveniences and quaint beauty aside, she wasn’t going to stay here a moment longer. And now was as good a time as any to demand that Patrick MacDonald take her home.
***
Patrick nodded at what Brianna told him, not at all surprised.
“I know she’s angry with me,” he said. “But I had no choice.”
Brianna threw up her hands, her blue eyes snapping. “I won’t argue with you. Though I’m sure Tara won’t be so accommodating.”
Patrick laughed without humor. “Of that I have no doubt.”
He stepped into the kitchen to find Tara standing there, her hands gripping the back of a chair. The expression on her face left little to the imagination. If she wasn’t such a little thing, he’d almost expect her to lift the chair and crash it over his head.
“Tara,” he said.
She opened her mouth to speak, stilling as she glanced at Bryce. With a tight smile, she faced him again. “I must speak with you, Patrick MacDonald.”
“Aye, lass.” He walked past her to the back door and opened it. “Come walk with me.”
She let out a grunt of frustration and stomped in front of him into the morning sunshine. The light bounced off her shining locks, and her ponytail caught his eye as it swung back and forth with each angry step. Aye, his ears would be blistered for sure.
He closed the door and followed her to a bench set beneath one thick tree. She sat on the edge and faced him. When she opened her mouth again, he held up one hand to still her.
“I need your help, Tara.”
She paused, then shook her head. “Look, Mr. MacDonald. I don’t know what you think you need, but I’m not staying her another minute.” She stood, shaking. “Take me home.”
His shoulders slumped. “Ah, lass. I can’t do that.”
He saw she caught something in his tone. Her brow furrowed, she peered up at him. He let out a breath and sat down.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice clipped but steady.
She was amazing, this girl. Out of her world, out of her time, and still he sensed a strength about her.
He bade her to sit again and she did, obviously careful to keep from direct contact with him. He couldn’t blame her for her fear. Hadn’t he taken her from her home yesterday?
“It’s my son, Tara.” He placed his hands on his thighs. “He’s wee, just three years old. He needs your help more than I.”
“Your son?”
He saw it in her eyes, a flicker of the concern he’d seen so clearly yesterday. He would appeal to her love of children. To her desire to see them well and whole. His hands fisted, but he ignored a niggling of guilt at the back of his mind. There was no time for it, and if he had to use her sensitivities so be it.
“Aye. He came to live with me nearly a week ago. He’s
troubled, Tara. And I need you to see to him. To help him.”
Her amber eyes grew round. “What’s wrong with him?”
He opened his mouth and closed it after a moment. He couldn’t tell her about the Banshee. Time travel was amazing enough to her. He feared that if he told her she was among Faery folk here in the dell she would do more than faint.
“Devlin’s locked away in himself, Tara. I can’t reach him. Luke’s Pix— Brianna can’t reach him even with her special talents. And the people here…” Tears of anger choked his throat and he banged his fists on his thighs. “They call him a changeling, Tara. A devil. But he’s not!”
Tara touched his fisted hand, her fingers cool against his flesh. “I’m sorry about your son. But what can I do?”
He gazed into her eyes, seeing the concern, the urge to help, and knew once more he had chosen well.
“I need what you know, Tara. From your studies at the Children’s Hospital. If you help him?” He swallowed. “If you can help bring him back to me, I’ll take you home.”
She blinked and pulled back from him, that wariness evident in her gaze once more. “You would keep me here against my will?”
There it was. He let out a breath and gave her a reluctant nod.
“Aye.” When she pulled away and began to stand, he grasped her wrist. “But not for me, lass. For Devlin.” Tara stared down at his hand and he released her. “I’m sorry. Pray, come see him. He needs help. And you’re the only one who can give it to him.”
Tara stood and turned from him, her arms crossed. Patrick held his breath while she gave his offer obvious thought. He wished he could know what she was thinking, who she was regretting leaving behind in Indianapolis, what life she thought to return to after helping him.
She spun on her heel, determination clear on her face, and he dared to hope she’d accept.
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