Bride of Fae (Tethers) (13 page)

The fairy shook her head slowly, and her brows crunched together. “You want to marry Lydia though you know she doesn’t love you?”

“She respects me.” He shrugged. “She likes me well enough. She’ll never bring shame on the Bausiney name. And she’ll never break my heart.”

“She’ll never make your heart soar either!”

“But that’s quite all right, Morning Glory. Don’t you see?”

Donall’s eye caught the fresco painted on the ceiling of the Sacred Temple of Joy and Wonder. It depicted a satyr ravishing a nymph from behind. His hands groped her breasts and his mouth clamped on her neck. It should be repulsive, but it made Donall ironically philosophical.

“
You
have made my heart soar. I’ll carry this feeling to my grave. I know exactly how it will be. This day will live in me all the days of my life. The memory will be a talisman against all sorrow, all pain. Nothing will violate that memory. Today is and ever will be perfect. Nothing can tarnish it.”

Something shifted inside him. Every word he’d just said was the immutable truth.
And like a charm, speaking the words had freed him of Lydia’s power.

Morning Glory
touched his cheek and smiled. “And I feared you might not be the romantic I first took you for.” She closed his fingers around the vial. “Keep it anyway. My gift to you. You might find another purpose for it.”

“Will I see you again?” He knew he wouldn’t.

“I don’t know.” She extended her wings and lifted off the floor. She was indeed the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

“My heart is breaking right now, Morning Glory. I want you to love me forever, and I know it’s impossible.” He stared at the marble floor. He’d never felt more alone. “I’ll be safe with Lydia. I could never break my heart over a woman who doesn’t love me. She presents no danger.”

When he looked up again Morning Glory was gone, and Lydia Pengrith was ascending the temple steps with all the self-confidence Donall had admired in her. And still did. Charles and Gwen followed behind, but it was as if they didn’t exist.

Lydia had changed too. The shift was invisible but powerful. Before, she’d fixed on Charles as her object. Now, Donall held the favored position. Or rather the cup did. The fairy cup had turned her. As Morning Glory might say, it didn’t matter. Donall let Lydia’s smile wash over him, and he returned one equally sincere. He extended his arm to her, and she took it.

“You’ve redone your cravat, my lord,” she said. “How very clever of you.”

B
EING DEAD FELT LIKE BEING
alive but with elements of the sublime juxtaposed on the mundane.

The yew wood rocking chair was impossibly comfortable, as if the person who made it had Beverly’s frame in mind
through every step of its construction. In the fireplace the bright-cut grate and chimney crane reflected the flames like marcasite jewelry. Bare roots hung like stalactites from the ceiling, and there were two crystal candelabra. Luxurious rugs covered the dirt floor. The soothing aroma of peppermint tea permeated the air and made the place homey.

It wasn’t heaven. It was a mud hut. But parts of it were heavenly.

“She’s awake,” her guardian angel said from across the room. He sat on a tall chest of drawers, his bare legs crossed, drinking from a porcelain tea cup.

“Welcome back, Beverly.” The dark-haired angel handed her a cup of tea, the eggshell-thin porcelain a contrast to his powerful bearing. He was thoughtful as well as intriguing and mysterious and sexy. Lovely qualities in a man.

But could she call an angel a man? This steaming mix of highlander, Celtic warrior, and rock star had retractable wings. His arms were bare. He wore a black leather vest embossed with dandelions and closed by toggles of silver and leather. His dark eyebrows and lashes framed unearthly green eyes. His straight thick hair, a dark cherry wood color, fell to his mid back, secured from his face by an elaborate silver clasp and picks.

She remembered his hands on her skin, his warm insistent mouth on…everything.
I am not in love….
The song from the pub came back to her.
But I’m open to persuasion.

There was something very wrong with this picture.

She was drinking tea by a cozy fire in a dirt-floor hut with window boxes on the inside, attended by two virile, decidedly unangelic angels—a scenario described in no guide to the afterlife she knew of. This was far beyond any New Age promise of what-your-mind-can-conceive-you-can-achieve hot tub nirvana.

She liked her afterlife clothes, though. The elegant cloth soothed her skin, unlike the cheap polyester she could usually afford. And the tea! Peppermint perfection.

The golden angel watched her, detached, as though he didn’t know her. As if he’d never saved her life. Maybe he was in trouble for not saving her this time. Maybe the cabinet where he perched was some kind of guardian angel penalty box.

“I’m sorry I fell off the cliff,” she told him. “I don’t know how it happened. But thank you for saving me the other time.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes glimmered quizzically, just as when he’d stared at her in the backseat of her dad’s Rambler.

“When you pulled me from the wreck.”

“Goldenrod?” The dark angel was not amused. “Do you know this human?”

“Not in the least,” Goldenrod said. “But apparently you do.”

Beverly’s cheeks burned.

“Joking!” Goldenrod raised his hands defensively. “Dandelion, I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Goldenrod? Dandelion? They had to be kidding. “I saw you,” she said. “They said I was hallucinating. They said Lord Dumnos pulled us from the car. But I knew it was you. I’ve always known you were real.”

“Car?” Goldenrod shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“The accident on the Ring road four years ago,” Beverly said. “You rescued me and my little sister.”

No comprehension on his face.

“When I was a child I often saw you at a distance, watching over me.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you before today.”

She wasn’t crazy. “But you’re my guardian angel.”

Goldenrod turned red-faced, and Dandelion burst out laughing. “I’ve heard Goldy called many things. Never an angel.”

Beverly glared at Goldenrod. Why was he lying?

“Beverly,” Dandelion said. “We’re no angels, and you’re not dead. You’re alive.” His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips and quickly shifted away to the fire. “Very much alive.”

Every inch of her body agreed, but her mind couldn’t process the information. “If I’m not dead…if you’re not angels…”

Sun and moon.
Her hand shook, and the teacup clattered against its saucer.

Goldenrod jumped off the chest. “May I present Prince Dandelion of the Dumnos fae, and I’m Goldenrod.” He made an exaggerated bow. “Call me Goldy.”

A picture of the pub popped into Beverly’s head and Clyde telling his Mischief Night story.
The best of all Mischief Night stories.
She’d always joined in with those who claimed to believe him, but it was all for a laugh. A game.

All of Dumnos pretended to believe in fairies and wyrding women and the high gods and the Dumnos ghosts and the spirit of Igdrasil. Many older or eccentric Dumnosians really did believe, but no one with any sense. Right?

And yet…

And yet she
had
experienced the mystery of Igdrasil. It was no less real just because she couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t explain her guardian angel, and here he was—claiming to be a fairy. Was a fairy any less comprehensible than an angel?

“Prince.” She raised a doubtful eyebrow. “And is this the royal palace?” A shadow passed over Dandelion’s face
. She didn’t know why, but she regretted the tactless comment.

“He’s banished from the faewood,” Goldy said. “We’re still fixing up the place.”

The hut’s floor was dirt but the rugs were fabulous. The walls looked like dried mud, and she didn’t even want to think about the roots dangling from the ceiling, but the furnishings and embellishments were lovely without exception, made with first-rate craftsmanship from the best materials. Even little things like the teacup, or the small carved box on the table beside the fire.

“Fairies. But you’re both so large and…manly.”

“Yes.” Goldy’s chest swelled. “And your point?”

“Aren’t fairies tiny and sparkly?”

“That’s sprites and pixies.”

“Sprites and pixies, of course. What was I thinking?” Beverly smiled inwardly. Marion would love this. “Why am I here? I mean how did I get here?”

Dandelion said, “I thought Idris sent you to spy on Mudcastle, but I couldn’t figure out what kind of fae you were. You’re too pretty to be a goblin.”

Too pretty to be a goblin. Not necessarily a compliment.

“Not any kind of fae.” Goldy lifted her bra off the pile of her clothes and crossed his eyes. “No fae would endure this self-torture.” He dropped the bra on the pile.

“Your clothes are made of material unknown to us, so at first I thought you might be from a different fae court,” Dandelion said. “But Goldy is right. No fae could endure those—”

“I get it,” Beverly said. “Polyester is bad. Do you think anyone actually prefers that rubbish?” How great it must be to be a fairy and never have to think about what things cost.

“Gone,” Goldy said, and the pile of clothes disappeared.

“I'm back!” Another fairy flew in through the open door, of human height but quite delicate. She flitted and spun around the room and came so close to Beverly they almost touched noses. Her eyes were fairy green—as Beverly now thought of the color. A sense of joy radiated from her.

“Whose new pet is this?” She settled and retracted her wings. “She’s lovely.” Without thinking, Beverly reached out to touch the fairy’s fine pale hair, but in a flash she’d moved on.

“Morning Glory,” Goldenrod said. “Did you find Lord Tintagos to your liking?”

“He gave me a present
,” Morning Glory said nonchalantly, admired her fingernails.

“What kind of present? You’re awfully pleased with yourself.” Goldy was at her side with his hand over her stomach. “A little faeling from his lordship?”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Morning Glory spun away as quickly as a finger snap. “I’ve never had a child. I want one. Someone who’s all mine to love.”

“What did you give him?” Goldy said. “Give a present, receive a present.”

“A love potion,” Morning Glory said. “But I don’t think he’ll use it.”

“Well done, Glory!” Goldy said.

“No.” Prince Dandelion sighed. “Badly done, Glory.”

“Why?” Goldy and Morning Glory said at once. Both seemed baffled.

Morning Glory added, “You love children as much as anybody, Dandelion. Cissa will be thrilled.”

Cissa?
Beverly didn’t like the implication. Cissa was someone close to Dandelion. His girlfriend? Wife?

“She will
not
be thrilled,” Dandelion said.

There was love in his voice, love and affection. Beverly felt—not jealous.
Terribly sad. Knowing his heart belonged to someone else made her own heart heavy.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “When Idris finds out, he’ll take the child.”

“Dandelion’s right,” Goldenrod said. “You never should have chosen Lord Tintagos.”

“I like him.”

“The future Earl of Dumnos.” Dandelion shook his head. “A faeling and a Bausiney. Idris won’t stop until he has the child in his possession. He’ll want to barter for the cup.”

“Wait,” Beverly stood up from the rocking chair. This was wrong. “There is no Lord Tintagos. Lord Dumnos doesn’t have a son. He has no children at all.”

“Dumnos has a son and two young daughters as well,” Dandelion said. “Donall. You saw him. When I first saw you, you were watching Lord Tintagos and his party at the lake.”

“The actors?” Beverly lost her grip on the cup and saucer
. They slipped from her hands, and Dandelion caught them as they fell. She thought of Clyde who’d been lost seven years. He always swore he’d been but a few hours in the fairylands. Panic clamped down on her chest.
Marion.
She sank into the chair, and her eyes met Dandelion’s. “Am I in the fairylands?”