Ensnared by Blood

by Claire Ashgrove

  She looked away from the tapestry and braved eye contact. As usual, when his stare held hers a breath too long, warmth seeped into her bloodstream. Damn. She’d hoped that would stop this trip.

  Beth abruptly averted her gaze, murmuring, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Sgàil na Faileas—Veil of Shadows—has been in my family for centuries. I’ll give you a tour if you’d like, after our evening meal.” He moved around to his desk once more and took a seat, lounging with one ankle crossed over a knee. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the candles strewn across his desk. “Unfortunately, in just a little while, my assistant will be here to collect these for the upcoming Imbolc ritual. Otherwise I’d take you now.”

  Ritual. The word stopped the wild butterflies in her belly. Beth had tried to forget that Fintan was High Priest to a local coven. Paganism didn’t fit with her staunch Baptist upbringing. It was the one, very deciding, factor about him that she couldn’t overlook—and one complication she couldn’t excuse away. All the more reason she was glad she’d booked a short trip. She had no desire to participate, or even witness, this pagan holiday ritual. But damned if she didn’t want to hug him hello as she had hugged him goodbye the last time.

  Beth forced the unacceptable longing aside and nodded politely. “A tour would be nice. If you want to show me to my room, I can keep myself busy until you’re free.” Maybe it would be better to keep her distance until she could get her body under control.

  He let out a light laugh and shook his head. “I’m free, Beth. Aside from this matter, I’ve cleared my schedule for you.”

  Something about the way he said that set off the disturbing flutter in her belly again and intensified the languid warmth flowing in her veins. She moved away from the warmth of the fire.

  “So.” He set both palms on the desk. A boyish grin curved one corner of his mouth. “Let me see this document you found. And by the way…” A dark eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly. “I like the change. You look beautiful.”

  That did it—if she’d been uncomfortably warm before, she was stifling now. Why, oh why, couldn’t she be immune to this man who was so obviously wrong for her? He was pagan, he lived in Scotland, and he encouraged her to do silly things like waste valuable time painting. They shared absolutely nothing in common, except for a love of her Celtic roots.

  Determined not to stutter in embarrassment, or hide behind her hair as she’d once done so readily, she forced herself to maintain eye contact. “Thanks.” She gave a shrug she hoped came off as nonchalant. “It was time.”

  Before Fintan could catch her off guard with another too-probing look or too-beguiling grin, she pulled her oversized purse in front of her and withdrew the old, leather-bound document. As it did each time she touched it, something she could only define as energy—and that took a lot of swallowing to admit—thrummed beneath her fingertips. Only now, the sensation wasn’t quite as foreign. Strangely enough, it mirrored the odd tingling that came with the grip of Fintan’s hand.

  Beth swallowed uneasily. This wasn’t going at all as planned. She couldn’t get caught up in distractions. Get the genealogy, keep your distance. You don’t need the hassle.

  Taking the chair opposite his, she set the bound runic writing on his desk between two piles of candles and pushed it closer to his reach. “Here you go. You’ll find the name on the first page. It’s the only combination of runes I could translate.”

  When Fintan didn’t immediately open the delicate binding, she reached across the desk and did it for him. But reading runes upside down was twice as difficult as reading them right side up. She turned the journal around to face her, scanned the elegant hand-drawn images, and tapped the series that defined Drust. “Right here.”

  As she looked up, Fintan stared not at the journal, but at her. Steel grey eyes were wide and fringed with a touch of disbelief. His posture had turned to stone.

  “What?” she asked, unreasonably self-conscious. “Is something wrong?”

  ****

  Beth’s question met Fintan’s ears like she spoke through a long wind tunnel. He saw her lips move, heard the melodic cadence of her husky voice, but couldn’t connect the sounds with logic. All he could do was stare at the embodiment of a woman who had changed the course of the Selgovae Celts existence. From the fire-kissed highlights in her hair, to her high, regal cheekbones, to the curious light that sparkled in her eyes, Beth Whitley mirrored Ealasaid, the priestess who studied under Fintan’s mother centuries ago. To perfection.

  Worse, she now bore the iridescent stain of his mother’s magic on her fingertips. It glowed in the fading afternoon light, an iridescent blend of purple, blue, and gold, that marked centuries of hidden power…and the means to eradicating Fintan’s abominable sire. Which made the deep yearning to relive the one accidental kiss they’d shared completely unacceptable, though the memory of that chance embrace was so powerful it hollowed out his gut.

  Gradually, he realized she’d asked him if something was amiss, and he shook off stunned stupor. He swallowed down the rise of forbidden longing. His gaze dropped to the journal she’d dragged across an ocean. He didn’t dare touch it yet. The demonic half of his soul recoiled at the very sight. Instead, he nodded slowly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Only that she’d brought the one document Brigid would kill for.

  “I have seen something this old…only once.” He chose his words carefully. What he understood about Beth marked her as a woman who wouldn’t begin to accept the truth behind the writings she discovered. Maybe the old Beth might have—back when she’d been vulnerable and teetered on the edge of following her heart or following edicts placed upon her. But not this one. Not the confident attorney who radiated composure and control.

  “You like it?” Her smile broke free, accentuating the brilliance of her jade green eyes.

  Like it—it was the one document he craved more than anything. He nodded as footsteps clicked down the hall. “Very much. It’s…amazing.”

  And potent. The energy rolling off the bound, wax-coated parchment was as forceful as a stone hammer. Energy that Drandar would sense, as well as Brigid.

  Energy that could spell Beth’s doom.

  With two fingers, he pushed the journal closer to her, anxious to have it tucked out of sight before his mother’s power drew undesirable attention. “We’ll look at it later. There’s a lot more there than I’d expected, and I hear Muriel coming. My assistant must be here.”

  Thankfully, Beth took the queue and tucked the journal back into her purse. With an inward sigh of relief, he noted the satchel was also leather. It would contain the power they unwittingly released by opening the journal.

  He exhaled heavily as the study door opened, and Muriel escorted a fair-haired young woman inside.

  “Andra, good of you to make it.”

  Andra’s gaze flitted to Beth, took her in from head to toe, before she nodded at Fintan. “Big plans coming up. Don’t dare forget to collect these. Are they all going? I spoke to Steven. He’s comfortable with drawing the circle. I guess…”

  As Andra rambled on, Fintan nodded absently. He couldn’t keep his mind off Beth, or the journal she’d lugged across the sea. When she’d left the last time, he’d felt certain she would never come again. Since she’d phoned, however, all he could think about was her arrival. Two years—had it really been that long? Damn it, he’d leapt at the opportunity to dig further into her roots not really believing they’d find anything. She would be here, under his roof, at his side night and day, working under a guise he was confident would lead them nowhere. Only now, he no longer needed to research the meaning of Drust, no longer needed to hunt for which Drust might pertain to her genealogy.

  No, the answers stared him straight in the face. Except she would never believe the explanation that Drust was not a man, but the word for tumult, or that it applied to Fintan’s father. That it documented the turmoil Drandar set upon the Selgovae.

  He’d found her roots all right. Tw
o years of searching, and now he didn’t know how to tell her that she was a descendant of his people, or that her ancestor, Ealasaid, had worked alongside Nyamah to destroy Fintan’s incubus father. Nor did he know how to convince her that she needed to leave immediately, before two years of fond memories damned her to the unthinkable.

  “Uh, Fintan?” Andra prompted as she wagged a candled in front of his face.

  Fintan shook his head to shake off the preoccupation of his thoughts. “Sorry, Andra. The ritual is so close—I’ve a lot on my mind.”

  “I bet. All right then, I’m out of here. You need anything else before we arrive for ritual?”

  “No. We’re good.” The only thing he needed was to be locked far away from Beth so the desire that simmered in his bloodstream didn’t turn into something deadlier. For beyond the realization of her roots, he realized something else, something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider for centuries.

  Beth Whitley didn’t just hold the means of damaging Drandar. She held the power to consume Fintan’s long-buried heart.

  Chapter Three

  Fintan rose to his feet as Andra left. All thoughts of dining in with Beth were now a thing of the past. He didn’t dare be alone with Beth. Not at least until he could tame the dark urges pushing toward his surface. He needed somewhere public. Someplace Brigid couldn’t observe, and someplace where simply being alone with Beth didn’t tempt him with thoughts of how soft, how sweet, her mouth was.

  “Let’s go down to the village and get a bite to eat.”

  Puzzlement filled her compelling green eyes. “I thought—”

  He flashed a smile before she could finish. “I’ve been cooped up in here all day. I need some fresh air. Besides, if I remember right, you don’t particularly like pork, which is what my cook put together.” He didn’t have the slightest idea what his cook had made for the night. Chances were it wasn’t pork, since he’d specifically reminded Lachlan that Beth couldn’t stomach it. But right now, he’d take any excuse to escape the suddenly claustrophobic confines of his office.

  When Beth stepped toward the door, rote habit lifted his hand to the small of her back. Like liquid fire, heat shot through his system, taking root in his groin. Beneath the confines of his comfortable jeans, his cock stirred to awareness. He bit back a silent oath and ushered her through the door, where he gratefully dropped his hand and gestured at the long hall, indicating she should go ahead.

  Putting her in front of him, however, solved nothing. Her hair might be different, her shoulders might stand more erect, but her ass hadn’t changed a bit. It was every bit as mouth-watering as it always had been. More so, if he allowed himself to acknowledge how her suit pants complimented the gentle curves, as opposed to the way her bulky, tattered jeans tried to hide them.

  Fintan bit back an inward groan. He’d been a fool to invite her to stay three days with him, especially with the Sabot so near. While Beth had always affected him powerfully, the rising energy of Imbolc only compounded her effect. He ached to explore that spark of passion he’d unwittingly discovered in her long-ago kiss.

  For a man who’d ignored his base urges, rarely indulging in the pleasures of the flesh, that spelled imminent trouble.

  He sought to distract the wayward nature of his mind through benign conversation. “So how have you been, Beth?” Better yet, what caused this transformation into a cool-as-rain woman with too-harsh lines to her designer clothing?

  “Good. A lot better than the last time I was here.” She laughed softly as they stepped through the front door. “I got things together and finally carved Dan out of everything. Opened my own practice too.”

  Though enthusiasm filled her voice, a sharp pang lanced through Fintan. She didn’t belong in law. Maybe she was good at it—he really didn’t know. But Beth’s passion lay in painting, and her controlling ex, Dan, along with her mother, had carved that passion out of her. Fintan held in a sigh. “That’s good. Are you painting at all?”

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed her stiffen. She shook her head, sending her long hair cascading over her elbows. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafted to his nose. He breathed it in, savored the sweet scent.

  “I really don’t have much time for many hobbies. I had to rearrange a court date just to get over here for three days. If I’d waited, my next break would have been in November.”

  He frowned as he opened the passenger’s door on his charcoal Mercedes. If she were willing to rearrange an appearance before the judge just to come to Scotland, didn’t that tell her anything?

  As she slid into the seat, the perfect picture of professional composure, regret pulled slowly through him. For one fleeting instant he longed for the softer, struggling woman he’d come to know. This one could stand-in for a cover model and likely stand toe-to-toe with the president, but that Beth was more endearing. More genuine.

  He rounded the front bumper and ducked behind the steering wheel before she could observe the frown that pulled at his brow. It shouldn’t matter. She was only staying three days, and he damn sure didn’t need to be considering anything but the upcoming ritual. Certainly not the many ways he’d like to peel off those wool slacks and pluck open the dainty pearl buttons on Beth’s sheer blouse.

  The drive to the quaint mountainside pub passed in unusual silence, a quiet Fintan couldn’t logic. What had happened to the Beth who chatted so freely, who didn’t hesitate to gasp at the high purple peaks or drill him over the history of Scotland’s native people? She seemed so far from the sweet-smelling woman who sat beside him. Like a dream he’d once imagined that shattered with the brilliance of first light.

  “Beth?” he finally asked as they eased into the narrow parking space. “Is something bothering you?”

  For one all-too-brief instant when her gaze flicked to his, he saw the memory he had held close. Her eyes sparked with brilliant, curious light, and softness touched her face as she gave him a genuine smile. “I’ve missed Scotland.” She reached across the center console and squeezed his hand affectionately. “I’ve missed you as well, Fintan.”

  That damned familiar gesture stoked yearning that had been buried for centuries. His innards ground down like a vise, and the swelling of his cock intensified to near painful limits. He sucked in a sharp breath, summoning every last vestige of willpower he possessed to keep from leaning across the distance that separated them and drawing Beth into his arms so he could lose himself in her unforgettable kiss.

  He cleared his throat, disentangled his hand, and opened his car door. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”

  ****

  Beth pushed aside her bowl of stew, more full than she could remember being. Beyond the plate glass window, the mountains that cradled Fintan’s home rose to majestic heights, their snow-capped peaks now deep lavender as the sun sank. Across from her, Fintan finished off a warm cherry tart. A dab of icing clung beneath his full lower lip, prompting her to giggle.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You have icing…” She touched the same area on her face.

  He used his teeth to retrieve the bit, curling them over to scrape it in, then swiping his lip with his tongue. Her heart tripped erratically. She couldn’t stop thinking about how right his mouth would feel against hers—had felt. And she’d stopped trying to rationalize the intense reaction his simple presence provoked inside her. Just as she’d stopped fighting the contentment Scotland itself brought.

  She liked Fintan. Always had. Being with him contented some unnamable part of her existence. She just couldn’t allow attraction to steer her off-course, or once again succumb to someone else’s vision of herself.

  Which made it all that more necessary to get the answers to the document, see if it related to her heritage, and return to Manhattan, because Fintan could easily sway her down another false life-course.

  “How old is that journal, Fintan?”

  He swallowed a mouthful of coffee with haste and just as quickly set his mug down. “Let’s not talk about
that here. There are people who would very much like to get their hands on something like it.” Reaching across the table, he picked up her hand and folded it between his large palms. “Why don’t you tell me why you went back into law? The last I heard, you weren’t happy there.”

  The feel of his slightly roughened hands against the back of hers shot thrills up and down her spine. She tamped down the urge to squirm in her seat, to splay her fingers so his would slide between the gaps. We’re just old friends. Just because you’re attracted to him, doesn’t mean he’s attracted to you.

  Law. She steered her mind back to conversation, away from the fantasy of what it might be like to spend three days indulging in a brief, no-strings-attached affair. “I’ve always liked law. I didn’t like practicing with my ex. Now that the divorce is finalized, and I have my own office, my own clients, I’m loving every minute of it.”

  Most of the time, that was true. The long hours, long nights preparing, and endless research into case law often made her yearn for an assistant. Jumping-to for bitchy clients made her nerves raw as well, but she accepted the demands, certain things would change when she’d built her reputation up enough that she could be a bit more firm.

  “And your mom? What’s she say about it?”

  Beth chuckled. “Mom couldn’t be happier. She says it’s about time I put my degree to good use and stopped letting Dan run me over.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  The sharp downturn of the corners of his mouth held censure that made Beth uncomfortable. She tugged at her hand, sliding it from between the protective hold of his. “What’s mm-hm mean?”

  Fintan shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “No, it meant something. What?”

  He leaned back in his seat, his contemplative stare even more unsettling. She held his speculative eyes, determined not to yield her insistence for answers. She’d faced off more intimidating men than Fintan McClaine, attorneys that could make a historian crawl on his knees and beg.