by R. F. Long
“Would that I could make love to you, Rowan. I can imagine no greater honour, nor admit no more earnest desire. And that would restore any amount of your power, for it is a shaping of all things. But I dare not. I cannot. I wish I could, but I am not the man to love you. There is no heart left within me for love.”
She stirred, disturbed by the tack this was taking. Opening her eyes, she looked into his smile and knew no matter what he thought, he felt nothing of the sort. Daire had a heart. She could feel it hammering against his chest, echoing through her body. She could see its glow in the depths of his wondrous eyes.
“But there are other ways, Rowan, if you will but give me your permission.”
“Permission?”
“To touch you. To fulfil you. To bring your strength back.”
“But the other night—”
“That is part of the problem. Two nights in a row, two nights I have—” He cursed, though the words were ancient and unknown to her. “I’m like nothing more than a Leanán Sidhe, feeding off mortals for my own purposes and enrichment. Please, Rowan, let me return what I have pilfered. It burns within me, tortures me with the knowledge of the forbidden.”
His lips brushed her neck, a little trail of fiery kisses down the edge of her erratically pulsing jugular. Her blood beneath surged in response and her breath caught in her throat.
“But you said you…you can’t make love…”
“Other ways, sweet Rowan,” he murmured into her skin. “I will never harm you. May I?”
Rowan bit her lip, intrigued. He couldn’t make love to her, by his own admission, couldn’t or wouldn’t love her. Other ways? Excitement mingled with fear and yet the dark silence still called. Rest, oblivion, peace…and if their enemies came she would be completely helpless.
“All right,” she said, unable to hide the wariness in her voice.
“I will stop if you command it,” he promised solemnly, and she believed him.
Rowan released all control to the Sidhe prince and allowed him to draw her back from the shadows calling her. Daire made her comfortable on the sofa, removed her shoes and her coat, all with the neat precision of a ritual. He loosened her hair, running his fingers through its length as if he was experiencing the finest silk. Just when Rowan was sure he had changed his mind, that he had decided to grant her the peace she craved and feared, his mouth closed on hers.
Daire’s kiss was determined, no chaste brush of the lips this time, no mistaking his intent. She opened beneath him like a flower to the sun. He smiled as he kissed her. She could feel it in their lips and somehow that made her too scared to open her eyes. Daire of the sombre expression, Daire who was constructed from hard lines of determination, Daire was smiling.
He trailed his way down her neck while his hand slid beneath her body, cradling her, massaging the taut muscles where her neck met her shoulders. For a moment she lost all sense of self, her body relaxing into his touch. She lay so still that one might think her deeply asleep, and yet inside herself, she struggled desperately for equilibrium.
Rowan had no idea when he opened her blouse or removed her bra, but she gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple, drawing it into his mouth, warm, wet and welcoming. His tongue swirled around the areola. His other hand brushed the soft skin of her thighs, parting them effortlessly. Fae enchantments? She squeezed her eyelids tighter, and arched her back, her breath coming harder as he switched breasts, as his hand cupped the mound and pressed with just the right amount of pressure.
That was one of the old stories, wasn’t it? The fae lover who could make a woman wild with desire, fulfil her so that she would never want another, would waste away with the need for his touch. Hadn’t she suspected his glamour of acting on her before? Hadn’t she thought of her reaction to him, her need for him, and wondered if it was deliberate? She had been a fool. That was a vague shadow to the things she felt now. That was just a dream, a myth, a fleeting shadow. Now she lay in the heart of the sun.
“Daire,” she forced the words out. “Daire, please!”
He released her breast and nestled between her legs. His elegant fingers slid up their length, though where her trousers had gone she had not a notion. But the act of shedding that last piece of her clothing seemed as much a part of his ritual as anything else. Daire’s head dipped between her thighs and he delicately parted her labia. His breath bathed her sex, flowing over her. Rowan gave a low moan which rippled all the way through her body.
Daire’s tongue moved against her, long and dexterous. He slid inside and withdrew, finding her clitoris, brushing across it until she shivered and cried out. Again, his tongue entered her, and yet somehow it didn’t. It seemed to stay where it was, lapping against the hard pearl of her desire, stealing her breath. Now she felt him at her breast as well. But he couldn’t be. Time slowed, swelled and burst apart. Over every inch of her, she felt Daire’s mouth, stimulating her, soothing her. She arched again, her mouth stretching open to cry out. But his lips met hers, his mouth claimed hers with a searing kiss. He drank in her cry.
Rowan’s orgasm broke over her, cascading through her body. Daire filled her, her body and mind, touching every aspect of her consciousness. Daire caressed her soul.
Orgasm shook through her, into him, but when the world melted around her, the sensations faded away until all that was left was his mouth on her lips, his kiss, his hands holding either side of her face. She heard him sigh. He sat back and enfolded her trembling hands in his.
Rowan opened her eyes and found him watching her, a hunger deep in the greenness of his eyes such as she had never encountered before. She found herself fully clothed, just as she had been before. But her body ached with the joy of the experience.
“What did you—” Her voice sounded too breathy, lost with amazement. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What did you do to me?”
The glow within him had dimmed. He looked tired as he sat opposite her. His eyes lingered on her face just a little longer before he broke that last contact.
“I gave you back your energy. Each human has a store within them, eternally replenished from your soul. But you, Rowan…” He shook his head as if he could hardly believe it. “You have more life and creativity in you than anyone, man or woman, that I have ever met. Your capacity to love…” He allowed his voice to trail off as if he was ashamed for saying too much.
“It was magic?”
“Yes. The truest form of magic. Two beings for a moment existing on the same soul fire. Forgive me,” he went on, more soberly. “I had no idea you would give so much to the process yourself, nor respond in such a manner. You should rest now, sleep and let your body finish replenishing yourself.”
“What about you? Are you all right?” She pushed herself off the sofa and sat opposite him. She reached out for him, taking his hands in her own, aware of how her fingers trembled.
He looked too pale, an imitation of the warrior she had seen in action earlier, and of the golden, glowing man who had kissed her with such unexpected passion. She longed to lean forwards and kiss him again, to feel all those overwhelming sensations once again, this time for real. But she couldn’t find the courage.
Daire tried to force a nonchalant smile. It didn’t work, never rising beyond the corners of his mouth and fading after a brief moment.
“This is your world, Rowan. Your house, with its iron locks, the journey in that metal contraption, the broom’s touch, the iron in…in everything…” He sighed and his eyes softened on her. “The iron in you. It drains me, much more quickly than I had imagined.”
“But you were stronger. Earlier on.” Concerned now instead of aroused, she ran her fingers over his.
“With the energy you gave me, yes.” His eyes darted warily over her face now, as if he guessed the suggestion to come.
“Then take more, if you need it. I don’t mind. Like you said, rest will make me stronger. I’ll be all right.”
Daire pulled his hands back as if she had suggested some
thing abhorrent. His face darkened with the shade of anger.
“I will not live like a parasite, feeding off you. Don’t you—” he visibly calmed himself, forced himself to be gentle, to explain all that she did not understand. “Rowan, have you never heard of the Leanán Sidhe?”
She turned the name over in her mind, but finally shook her head. Though the name was familiar, she could recall no details. She knew it from some old story of Grams’, she supposed.
“The Leanán Sidhe is a creature of the Unseelie, and even they fear its embrace. It frequently travels the mortal world, selecting someone exceptional, gifted. A musician, an actor, or an artist perhaps, one blessed with so much energy to create that it pours out of them and into their daily life and work. The Leanán Sidhe hunts them out, befriends them, seduces them and then it starts to feed. It inspires them, increasing the creativity flow to dazzling levels, but in the end it drains them dry. Like all mortals who love the Sidhe, they die broken hearted, once the Leanán Sidhe deserts them, once they are no longer of any use.”
His hand brushed hers once more, a careful and delicate touch. Comforted just a little, Rowan shifted closer, turning so she could nestle against him.
Like all mortals who love the Sidhe. She pushed the chill those words inspired away, refusing to think about what they meant for her, for both of them. Love was so strong a word, but it was starting to worm its way into her heart and that scared her more than anything.
Daire slid his hand across hers, left it there. Rowan’s skin tingled.
“If I, even at your invitation, started to feed on you—” She started to protest that feed was the wrong word, not what she meant. He was not put off. “If I started that, I’d be no better than the creatures I have made it my business to destroy. The Unseelie are evil. That is all. Any Sidhe can turn into a Dark Sidhe. It just takes enough wrong-hearted decisions to fall. The potential is within us all. Just waiting for need, desire, or rage to push us over the edge.”
“But you are a good man, Daire.”
“Lorcan and Cathal were good men once. And Aynia. Once Aynia was an example of that to which every Sidhe aspired.”
Rowan shuddered, and Daire held her a little closer.
“You should go to your bed, Rowan, get some sleep. In spite of the way you feel, you still need to sleep.”
The delicate warmth within her slid away, replaced by the tight coldness of fear. Aynia’s voice lingered in her mind, her presence hanging like a black-and-white winged shadow over them both.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.” She couldn’t believe she actually said it. The words slipped out of their own accord. Rowan had never told anyone how much she hated solitude. It was part of her life, something she accepted, but to which she had never become accustomed.
“I can’t stay,” Daire said, even as he held her a little tighter. “But I will lie by your side tonight, if you will allow it. I will let no harm come to you, Rowan. I swear it. Never.”
Rowan couldn’t doubt he meant it. Honour. She understood it now. Everything about Daire hinged on his honour.
She uncurled from his embrace, got to her feet, and led him up the stairs to her bedroom. They settled on the bed together, still clothed. It didn’t feel like she was dressed. She stretched along the length of his strong back, her body pressed to his body and she felt his tight muscles slowly unwind, his exhaustion taking him to a deep, unburdened sleep so quickly she realised his body had longed for it.
Daire was so determined to protect her, but here, now, she knew it was up to her to protect him. So Rowan snuggled against him, listened to his deep breath, his heartbeat pounding through him and in to her. The world around them quietened, the wind a gentle breeze, the trees whispering of sleep. Eventually she gave in and slept, but only lightly, aware of him every second that they lay together. Aware that this was not forever, that there might be no more than this night. But it was enough.
Chapter Ten
The rising voice of the wind woke Rowan just after two in the morning. Daire slept on, his body stretched out on her bed. His chest rose and fell slowly, like the swell of the waves out at sea, even and endless, disguising the dormant power beneath. She studied his face, which appeared different in sleep. The hardness bled away, leaving a strong but gentle face, dependable, the kind of face a woman would want to awaken beside for the rest of her life.
She smiled at her own thoughts. She had always been her own worst enemy when it came to seeing things in others that weren’t necessarily there. She’d seen dependability in Peter’s face too, once upon a time, and look where that had brought her now.
Apart from ultimately here, lying beside Daire, watching him and looking for the same mythic qualities.
That was part of the problem—her attraction to this Sidhe prince. It threw her off guard, more so than all the madness since they had met, more than her own problems. Daire intrigued her, fascinated her, and every moment she spent with him, that fascination was getting stronger, more powerful.
She knew he would leave her. She had no delusions about that. Men left. It was a fact of life. It appeared that Sidhe princes were no different in that regard. And Daire had at least been upfront about his intentions from the very beginning.
The window rattled in the wind and Rowan shivered, stirring uneasily. Just the wind, she told herself. But hadn’t Daire said Aynia could call the wind? The curtains filled with the breeze that crept in through the cracks around the window, one of the problems of a creaky old house. It must be blowing a gale outside.
Rowan stretched out her legs over the edge of the bed and planted her bare feet firmly on the carpet. The soft fibres felt like reality and she calmed her rapid breath. Neither she nor her grandmother had ever managed to find the time to replace the windows with draft-proof double glazing. Only in the attic were the windows made of anything but wood and ancient paint. Grams had the attic converted years ago to make her a studio, a bright and open space where broad Velux windows looked up to the sky, pouring light into her workspace.
The iron latches of the old windows rattled against the wind but held firm. Now, despite the noise, Rowan was glad of their age and their inbuilt protection. She padded to the window and opened the curtain, half dreading she would find a magpie determinedly pecking away or, even worse, Aynia’s pale face pressed against the glass. But nothing fae could get in, not easily. She was certain of that. Daire had told her so, and she believed him. She ran her fingers over the stout iron latch and pursed her lips, watching the storm outside.
The wind hurled leaves and branches around like a child having a tantrum. It buffeted against the house, shrieked as it sped through the eaves. But it could not get inside.
“We hung up horseshoes for luck above the doors to the house and the barns,” Grams had said, “and your grandfather put iron nails in the foot of every door into this house. We’ll have none of the fae in here, thank ye kindly.”
Rowan sighed and looked back at the bed. Daire rolled over in his sleep, stretching his arm towards the warm dip where she had nestled.
Oh Grams, if only you knew.
She clenched her teeth tightly together, trying to clear her thoughts, and turned to watch the storm instead of the Sidhe. No wonder Daire found her world so draining. Iron riddled this house. She and Matthew had laughed at the old woman’s superstitions, but now they were keeping Rowan alive.
But could they be killing Daire?
Tears stung Rowan’s eyes, sudden and unexpected. She could not let anything happen to him. She blinked her grief back.
From behind her, Daire gave a soft groan. He stirred on the bed again, still asleep and he reached out a long-fingered hand to the pillow, searching for the warmth of her scent that lingered there.
Rowan smiled and crossed the room to him. Suddenly he didn’t look so relaxed. His brow furrowed, his eyes tightly shut. Concern stabbed at her when she saw the muscles in his neck strain. Daire was having a nightmare, alt
hough what a man as violently skilled in combat as he was might have nightmares about, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. He squirmed, his hand still reaching out, but not as if he searched for her now. Rather it looked like he grasped for a weapon.
Rowan slipped her hand into his and his grip closed, as powerful as the metal which normally leeched his strength. Flinching, she struggled to stay in contact with him, bringing her other hand to his forehead, half afraid he would awake and attack her before he truly came to his senses. But he didn’t. Beneath her delicate touch, Daire started to relax. He sank back again and though his grip didn’t loosen, it gentled. His fingers softened to a caress.
She knew he was a warrior caught in a never-ending war. She couldn’t imagine what horrors he had seen to make him, of all people, have such nightmares. She ran her fingertips lightly down his exposed left temple, traced the raised line of his cheekbone.
Daire smiled in his sleep.
Rowan had never seen anything as riveting in her life. Enthralling. The artist in her sang into wakefulness.
–—
The blissful warmth enshrouding him was gone. Daire stretched, unsure where he was or why. Though he woke as he always woke, alone, he felt something missing. A piece of him had been stolen away in the night. Something he needed, something that belonged with him. The nagging sense of alarm increased as he opened his eyes. He lay in a soft, feminine place, with Rowan’s scent still clinging to the bedclothes, to him. The bed still held the ghost of her body’s indentation, the soft dips and hollows where she had slept at his side.
But there was no sign of her.
Daire slipped from the bed, finding his sword lying on the floor beside him. He buckled it in place and moved noiselessly though the room, her domain, the centre of her home. He could feel her all around him, the echoes of her life in this room. On the bedside table he saw a photograph of two children and an elderly woman. The girl smiled without a care in the world, while the boy grinned, his eyes hidden under an overlong fringe. The old woman gazed out at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. Age brought wisdom, and wisdom of many things beyond the mundane. Rowan’s grandmother had been a formidable woman. He knew that from a glance at her image, from her protective embrace.
