by R. F. Long
She remembered the ruined fence when she nearly fell over the debris. It looked like a horse had charged through it. A large horse with anger management issues.
Strange images flashed through her mind again. A shadow with fiery eyes laughed its sickening laugh as it bore down on her, a man clothed in leaves and vines all the colours of autumn, hair between red-gold and copper, a sword, a blinding white light, deafening concussion and a kiss.
Most clearly of all she remembered the kiss, brief and delicious and promising a thousand tomorrows filled with just such breathtaking kisses. Her body warmed with the memory and that oddly familiar tingling ran across her lips like tiny pinpricks. She brushed her fingers after it, as if trying to verify the sensation with her fingertips. But she couldn’t be sure.
A magical kiss.
Loud, artificial music jarred her back to alertness. The phone. The phone was ringing. She scrambled through the gap in the fence and saw the green light of the screen making a whole pile of leaves glow like a special effect from a horror film. She dropped to her knees, rummaging through the undergrowth until her hands found the slim exterior of the casing. Relieved, she flicked it open.
“Hello? Ro?” Matthew sounded tired and irritable, but Rowan had never been so delighted to hear her brother’s voice.
“Matt! Oh thank God! I’ve had the worst evening. Peter cancelled the show. I… I lost the phone. I think I hit my head…” She struggled to her feet, phone in one hand, flashlight in the other, but as she did so the signal dropped.
Wretched countryside, and phone companies and electronics and… She stomped vindictively back towards her garden, trying to hit redial one handed.
She was almost there when she noticed the shadow following her. Fluid and sleek, it almost matched her own. Almost. Rowan slowed her pace and finally managed to get Matthew’s number up again.
It went to voicemail. He was probably trying her again at the same time. Rowan wanted to scream in frustration. But she didn’t dare. If someone, or something, was following her, she couldn’t allow herself to panic. She couldn’t lose it. She walked more quickly, striding towards her home. Once past the fence there would be nothing in her way, just the path. She could run for safety. Run? She would break the land speed record.
The thought brought with it an unsettling sense of déjà vu. Her shoulders tightened.
Fear of these woods was a new experience for her. Now, terror told her that if she even attempted to run, something would snag her foot, and then something else, something that didn’t belong here, would be on her in seconds. Or maybe it did belong here. Maybe it had a place here long before mankind had come. Perhaps it resented the intrusion? It was stalking her, getting closer all the time, circling her, closing in. If she fell…
She was almost home when the shadow slid by her. He stepped out from behind a tree, still clad in his outlandish costume, still so handsome she almost forgot the need to breathe. But even as she acknowledged all that, even as she recognised her saviour of earlier and all the jumbled nightmare slotted back into place in her patchy memory, her body reacted on instinct. She swung the heavy weight of the flashlight as hard as she could right at his head.
And he didn’t move aside. If anything, he looked startled as the flashlight impacted the side of his skull with a sickening crunch. He folded up like a rag doll, spilling onto the forest floor in front of her.
Rowan sucked in a single, stiletto breath.
Nothing moved. He didn’t get up. He just lay there.
Oh God, I’ve killed him. He saved me from the monster, kissed me and came back. And now I killed him.
Hysterical laughter, the kind that wouldn’t be out of place in a drama about a psych ward, rippled across the forefront of her mind.
Rowan dropped to her knees beside the stranger. Just what she needed to make her hell complete—a murder charge.
She reached out a trembling hand to touch his face. His skin felt cold, damp, almost clammy.
Oh God, no. Don’t be dead.
She studied his face, looking for signs of life. Nothing. His red-gold hair curled softly, not the wiry curls that gave red hair its usual harshness. This was more like silk, like the coat of a spaniel. She reached out to it, wrapped a full, silken curl around her finger.
He surged into life, grabbing her wrists as he rolled. She found herself pinned underneath him, every part of his body in contact with every part of hers. She couldn’t move. Not because he held her immobilised. Of course, he did, but that wasn’t the reason she couldn’t move, could barely breathe, could only stare into the wonder of his face.
His gaze transfixed her. Eyes the colour of new leaves, but harder than emeralds, stared angrily into hers. Behind them, she recognised the danger, the wild thing that dwelt inside him. She should have been afraid. Her heart beat so hard, echoing back into her chest from his body. His brows knotted above them, creating a deep furrow of consternation. And his lips. She stared at his lips, slightly parted, sensuous but firm.
Rowan’s body acquiesced beneath his, silently begging for a kiss from those lips. To her horror, warmth spread through her body, the tension melting in her abdomen, as her body filled with longing to wrap itself around him and let him sink into her. Slowly, as if understanding her need for him, his grip gentled.
Reality slammed back into her consciousness and she used the only defence she could come up with. Finding one leg free, she slammed her knee as hard as she could towards his groin.
He moved so quickly that Rowan could have sworn he teleported away from her. There was a rush of air and she could breathe again. One moment he was on top of her and the next he was perching in the lowest branch of a tree like some great hawk.
“Daire,” she said, dredging up the name from her memory. “Daire, isn’t it?”
He nodded, a single, neat gesture. Slowly he uncoiled and dropped to the ground into a stately bow.
“You have me at a disadvantage, milady.” His voice flowed over her, deep and mellow, setting her nerve ends tingling.
“Rowan,” she answered. “Rowan Blake.” She shuffled away, trying to get to her feet without appearing desperate to do so.
To her amazement he smiled, a brief self-deprecating I-should-have-guessed smile. It softened the hard lines of his jaw and etched crow’s-feet of pleasure at the corners of his eyes.
“The rowan is also called the mountain ash, a tree remarkable for being impervious to the powers of the Sidhe. It would appear, Rowan, that your namesake serves you well.”
Daire offered her his hand. She took it gingerly, feeling the strength in his grip, the warmth in his skin. But at her touch, he wilted, the strength she had felt in him seeping away.
“Forgive me, Rowan,” he whispered. Without fully realising what she was up to, she caught him before he could fall, staggering under his weight. Blood slicked the side of his face, right from the spot where she had hit him with the flashlight.
Rowan shuddered, trying to hold onto him and balance the torch. She gave up and let the torch thud to the ground, choosing instead to hold him, the light shining into his face, his chest moving only fitfully.
Afraid her first impression that she had killed him was accurate after all, Rowan hefted him in her arms, her back and shoulders protesting at the solid weight of muscle she needed to move. What choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him here. She couldn’t abandon him out here in the woods.
Steeling herself, Rowan dragged the unconscious man back towards her house, his feet leaving a trail through the leaves and dirt behind them.
Chapter Three
Rowan staggered as she fished her keys out of her pocket, still trying to hold Daire up and maintain her own balance. Quickly, she turned the latch and used her free hand to push the door open.
“Come on then,” she said, more to herself than to him. She heaved him onto the couch in the living room and darted back to the kitchen to close the back door. The mobile rang again, but she left it in her pocket an
d slipped out of her coat, leaving it lying on the ground at her feet. The world around her swam and she leaned against the door, seeking to centre herself, to find a toehold back in reality. The events of earlier smeared across her mind, in and out of their rightful places, some detaching again to confusion, some sticking where they should have been.
Especially the kiss.
She had never experienced a kiss like that in her whole life.
And it was real. Not a stress dream or a fever hallucination.
Wasn’t it?
Nervously, she crept back into the living room to see him still there, sprawled across her sofa. The blood had dried on the side of his head, matting his red-gold hair. His clothes appeared, even on closer inspection, to be made of leaves and vines. Like Peter Pan. But no child.
Oh no. Not a child.
She moved slowly to his side, knelt there, studying him.
He breathed deeply, an even inhalation and exhalation of deep rest. Head wounds always bled a lot, she knew that much from first aid. But she didn’t know if he should sleep or not. He hadn’t seemed groggy or anything. Just exhausted, wrung out. She studied the anatomy of his face again, his high cheekbones, the slant of his eyes, the red-gold lashes. She could see no pallor and he didn’t seem to be in any pain. She reached out to touch him, but stopped, afraid to wake him, afraid of having to face the ever increasing reality of him. Sleep then, and hope for the best.
Her own yawn took her by surprise. Rowan checked her watch. It was after midnight, though she had no idea where the time had gone. Her body ached and longed for sleep now, with the crisis passed. She got two heavy blankets from the cupboard, draped one over Daire and wrapped herself in the other. She would just sit here to keep an eye on him, just wait and watch him sleep. Maybe just close her own eyes for a moment or two.
–—
Sunlight flooded through the living room window, the bright low sun of October. Rowan felt it on her face, warming her, relaxing her. There was nothing she liked more than waking up naturally to the glow of the sun.
A hand touched her hair, strong, long fingered, male. It stroked her hair, as if testing the texture. Rowan jerked into full wakefulness and found herself staring right into the brightness of Daire’s green eyes, less than a foot from her face. He was stretched out on her sofa, propped up on one arm, solemnly watching her, his emotions unreadable on his flawless face.
Awkwardness washed through her and Rowan retreated into herself. “I’m sorry. I brought you home. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Damn it, woman, you’re babbling. Get a grip. Calm down!
Daire flexed his limbs and uncoiled, coming to a sitting position before her. He continued to watch her carefully and inclined his head.
“I am grateful for your hospitality, milady.”
“What—who are you?” she asked, holding the blanket closer, like a shield. “What happened last night?”
“You were unfortunate to stumble across an ancient battle. My errant brother brought it to your door. For that, I am heartily sorry, Rowan.”
It was the way he said her name. It rolled off his tongue like a song. She basked in the sound. But she could not let herself forget what she had seen, the way he had moved, the nightmare creatures. He had brought them, he said, Daire and his brother.
“But what were those things? And what did you do with the sword?”
His hand strayed to the sword hilt at the mention of it. Checking it was still there, perhaps? She frowned at him, waiting for an answer.
“They were Dark Sidhe, the Unseelie Court, my enemies and the enemies of all my kind. Once they were our kindred, but no more. They tithe to hell now and would make us all do so. I came looking for Aidan and they followed me, hoping to capture me, for here I am more vulnerable.”
Nothing about him looked vulnerable to Rowan. Wait—he was Sidhe? But that was something out of Grams’ stories, not the real world. Surely, this couldn’t be true. But she only had to take one look at him—from the beauty of his physical form, his sword and clothes, the way he had moved—to know that it was. It was all too real.
Her initial disbelief must have shown on her face. As if to illustrate his point, he brought his hand up to his head and winced. Sudden guilt coloured her face.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Rowan protested.
“You were right to defend yourself,” he agreed, but then a glint of humour melted the hardness in his eyes. “It was the second assault against which I took umbrage.”
Rowan’s face heated and she was sure she had turned scarlet. She felt so small, as if her skin was shrinking all around her overheated core.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
“No.” His voice softened and he reached out one perfectly formed hand. His fingers stroked her face briefly and she felt the heat of shame replaced with something else, something far more powerful. “Your honour is of great value, milady. That, you should defend at all costs.”
If anything, Rowan’s face burned all the hotter. This was impossible. Too embarrassing for words. Like magic. And she didn’t believe in magic. Her better judgement warred against her instincts again. She pulled back, breaking his spell, at the same time wondering if he had done it on purpose.
The Sidhe were meant to be able to do that, weren’t they? Grams’ old stories said so. They sought out human love, fed on desire, left the mortal a dying husk. If that was true, and her newfound experience feared it was, then Daire was dangerous. Possibly the most dangerous thing she had ever encountered. It would be easier if this wasn’t real, so much easier. But once more, her doubt bled away when confronted with the obvious reality of the man before her, the Sidhe prince, in her home.
Daire nodded as if in understanding.
“Now, if you will forgive me,” he continued, “I must go. I need to find my way home.”
“Why didn’t you go back with…with your brother?”
“Aidan lost his key. Without it, he could not pass through the veil.”
“So you gave him yours,” she finished for him, understanding a little more every moment about this strange man.
He nodded curtly.
“You must care a great deal about him,” she said.
His reply was simple, and explained everything. “He’s my brother.”
She thought of Matthew and the constant worry he had been throughout school and college, a tearaway, a near-delinquent. Thank God he’d done some growing up in the last five years. She pushed her unruly hair out of her face.
“Yeah, I have one of those.”
Daire gave a weary smile. “Then you understand.”
Rowan’s own features lifted in response, and she looked deep into his eyes, only partly aware that she was all the time leaning closer to those strong, expert lips.
Upstairs the alarm clock started its incessant beeping.
And everything came rushing back to her again—reality, the gallery, Peter’s defection, potential bankruptcy. It must have shown on her face for Daire’s expression reflected concern. She got to her feet and he rose too, even though she walked away from him hurriedly. Good manners, she noted absently. How many men still rose when a woman did in this day and age?
Except he was not a man, was he?
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I have so much to do. And I’m keeping you here. You should clean the cut though, on your head. There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs and antiseptic ointment in the cupboard.”
Daire watched her retreat without comment and it was only when she got to her bedroom and slapped her hand across the clock to silence the noise that she realised he probably hadn’t a clue what she had been talking about.
–—
Daire waited until Rowan had gone to allow himself to sit back down. His head reeled, as if he was elf-shot or had been in the grips of a night mara, ridden to exhaustion and despair. He could not show such weakness to anyone, especially not to a mortal, no matter how unusual she might be.
It had been many years since he had encountered one of them, iron born and iron bred. There was iron in her, that was for sure. It was wrapped in a body of soft and silken curves, in gentle tones and a delicate scent, but no one but the strongest iron born could have felled him so effectively, even wounded, even weakened.
With the sun falling on his body, he felt his magic renew itself, his strength flowing back into him with the light. He opened the window and let it bathe him, washing away the weakness of the night before. The cut on his head was nothing, a scratch, but since it seemed to distress her, he exerted a little magic to banish it. The wound healed and the blood dissolved.
The sound of metal on metal alerted him. Keys in the front door. Sure that she lived alone, he drew his sword. An invader? A woman alone would be in danger. Daire cleared the sofa in one leap. He flung open the door to the hall to find a youth standing there. Dark eyes not unlike hers, hair the colour of mahogany and a ripple of surprise rising in his brow.
The young man took one look at him and yelled for Rowan in a voice caught between surprise and outright rage.
Rowan thundered down the stairs yelling the name “Matthew”, looking even more scarlet than before.
“What the hell?” the youth shouted.
“He’s my brother!” she yelled at Daire, ignoring the fury in the young man’s voice. “He’s just my brother!”
“And who the hell is he?” Her brother’s eyes never wavered from the gleaming bronze of Daire’s sword.
His instincts were good. Some men would have attacked anyway, but, Daire noted, Matthew assessed the situation first and realised that unarmed he stood no chance. Of course, armed he would have been little challenge. But still angry, still dangerous—and Daire would never underestimate a brother who felt his sister’s honour slighted. He held his stance.
“Daire.” She slipped between them and pushed his sword aside with one tiny hand. He relented, sheathing it, and hoped she knew what she was doing. “He’s a…” She paused, glancing at him, panic in her eyes. “An actor. Rehearsing, for…um…A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
