Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (4 page)

"Colin James Fitzpatrick!" A lovely deep voice boomed across the yard, but the man's face that went with it looked more exasperated than angry. "Will ye ever watch where yer going, lad?"

"Aye, Uncle Daire," the boy said solemnly watching the man drew nearer. "Maybe when I'm as old and slow as ye!" Then he dashed away with a laugh as his uncle made a half-hearted swat at his behind that caught nothing but air.

The man was shaking his head, but smiling as he approached Lacey. "I'm sorry, lass, but it's the first fine day we've had in a fortnight and I'm afraid the children are a bit wild with the sun." Now that he was near enough to see her swaying, his eyebrows drew together in alarm. "Gods, the little imp didna really hurt ye, did he?"

Lacey knew she must look a sight; what after an icy-cold midnight nap on the hood of a car, a hike through the woods, being half-starved, jet lagged, lost and just plowed over by five-year-old tornado, and she wanted to assure him his nephew had done the least of the damage, but was instead struck speechless for the second time that morning.

Lacey had been around many different kinds of men—and in her career choice—many of them very,
very
handsome men. Not once had she lost the ability to talk around any of them. But this man was—in a word—magnificent. Tall, thick brown hair, eyes that would put sapphires to shame and features that danced that delicious line between pretty boy and rugged tough guy. He could out-gorgeous Brad Pitt, hands down. It was too much to deal with on top of everything else. She swayed again.

He took this in with a frown, the concern evident on his handsome face. "Well then, let's get ye up to the house."

And without another word, he swept her into his arms and began to walk up the low hill to the house Lacey had glimpsed. He glanced down at her and smiled at the way her eyes had widened.

"Donna take offense, lass, but ye look mighty peaked and if ye fainted on the way to the house, me mam wouldna let me hear the end of it. Besides, ye donna weigh more than a dandelion clock—wonna even work me up an honest sweat." She couldn't help but smile at his sunny good cheer, and felt less ridiculous than she would have supposed. Until the children came rushing around them, pelting the man with question after question.

"Oy, Unc Daire, did she faint?"

"No, Colin killed her!  Dinna he, Uncle?”

"Bet Da will kill
him
, this time."

"Will ye have to kiss her to wake her up, Uncle Daire? I think you should try it." This last was spoken in a very bossy tone by a girl in honey-colored braids that tried to press her face right into Lacey's.

"I'm
not
asleep." Lacey mumbled warningly against Daire's shoulder and felt the rumble of his laugh.

“So, ye have a voice, I see." He said quietly, before barking at the children. "Mind yer tongue, Chloe. And away with all of ye, noisy heathens! Worship the sun god while ye may and leave us grown folks some small peace."

The children laughed at his bluster, but scattered obediently. Lacey peeked over his arm and tried to make a count of them, but it was like counting a flock of hummingbirds on the wing—they were too quick, and bright and many.

By the time she turned back, Daire was climbing a wide, shallow set of handsome stone stairs set into the hillside. He ducked through a pair of out flung wooden doors carved lavishly in some fantastic design, though they flashed by too fast for Lacey to get more than a glimpse of a lake that looked remarkably like Lough Gur and some rather scary-looking forest animals framed by a lot of intricate Celtic knotwork.

"Mam!" Daire called in a voice that rang out ahead of them through rooms that zipped by leaving Lacey with a vague impression of light and wood and flowers. A tall, graceful woman with graying red hair finally peeked out of what appeared to be a kitchen, At least, from the smells that wafted out of it, Lacey dearly hoped it was a kitchen.

The exasperated look on the woman's lined, but still beautiful face, said clearly she'd been about to tell her son off for shouting at her, but she caught sight of Lacey and her mouth closed with a snap. Then her lips made a little 'o', but for a long moment not a sound passed them.

She soon made up for lost time.

"
Oh.
Oh, oh! Daire, what happened to the poor wee thing?"

Lacey wasn't entirely sure how she felt about being referred to as a 'poor, wee thing', but as the woman had such an air of sweet compassion about her, and was probably going to feed her, she decided not to dwell on it.

Daire carried her into the bright room that boasted a deep window seat on the right and an old, sturdy oak table and chairs on the left, beyond which was a sliding glass door that seemed to lead out into a backyard garden. Directly in front of her was the stove, sink and other appliances, before which the woman stood, her hands twisting in her blue and yellow checked apron as she looked at Lacey.

She seemed almost nervous...or maybe it was just excitement at having a visitor.

"Well, other than young Colin's spectacular catch that ploughed her back a good two feet and planted them both on their ar…. Ah well," he continued sheepishly, looking—under his mother's narrowed gaze—remarkably like his nephew Colin, "well, other than tha', Mam, I couldna say. She's barely strung two words together and she looked as if she was gonna pitch it in, so I brought her to ye right smart."

"Four." Lacey straightened in Daire's arms, thinking it was about time he put her down now, but not sure how to politely address the situation.

Daire and his mother exchanged a bemused glance, then turned to her with such similar looks of anxiety that she had to suppress a laugh. These people were just too damn
sweet
. Maybe her luck was turning. "I think I actually managed to string
four
words together," she clarified. "It wasn't easy."

She gave Daire and all his gorgeousness a pointed look.

His mother laughed delightedly, and cast a knowingly proud look at her son.

"Ah, she's alright, lad. Just dead tired, if I were to judge. I'm called Moiré, lassie. Well, set her down, Daire! Nae, no way over there, she looks ready to float away. Come here to the table and we'll have her story."

Daire, shaking his head, was about to comply, when a shadow darkened the glass door and it slid open, another man's voice calling out.

It was very similar to the rich tones of Daire's voice, but somehow deeper and sharper both, with a rumbling timbre that had Lacey restraining a shiver.

"Gods, what's the fuss? The children ran out to the field and were mobbing me and Michael, screaming about Colin killing some American girl?"

What, do I have red, white and blue tattooed on my forehead, Lacey thought exasperatedly, before Daire shifted his feet and she saw the speaker.

He blotted out the doorway. Unmistakably related to her rescuer—with all his good looks—albeit a much darker edge. Black hair instead of brown, unruly and a bit long. Dark gray eyes instead of the warm blue. Wider shoulders, a crueler, but still sensual mouth. And where Daire was merely large, this man was huge. Not to mention there was something intimidating about him that went far beyond size. He looked dangerous…almost
wild.

Lacey felt a warm flutter around her lower belly. Daire might make a woman temporarily lose the power to speak—but this was the kind of man who made a woman forget to
breathe
.

She immediately was caught by those smoky eyes. Their gazes locked and she saw the most remarkable change come over those eyes. Once second they had been open, warm and compelling, the next they had frozen in unmistakable hatred so viciously cold she gasped and instinctively ducked her head against Daire.

Daire's mother said something sharply in what must be Gaelic, whereby a torrent in the same language flowed from the gray-eyed man.

There seemed to be a decisive argument going on, but Lacey was too shaken to try and pay attention, even if she had been able to understand. Her guide book hadn’t covered Gaelic like this.

What the hell had
that
been? Nobody had ever looked at her like that in her entire life. Why should they? She wasn’t the type people hated on sight. And crazily enough she was sure that was what had been in his look—pure hatred that felt like he had reached into her chest and wrapped icy fingers around her heart.

This trip was headed back to weird with a vengeance.

Then suddenly, someone was speaking English again and she chanced a look. The big gray-eyed man had vanished and Daire's mother looked strained, but determined to act as if nothing of any concern had just happened.

"C'mon, lad, put her down here and let me get the tea on and we'll have a cuppa and a proper talk with our young lass."

Finally, Lacey found herself deposited on her own two feet, only to have them promptly crumbling under her. Thankfully, it was only a short fall onto a stout wooden chair. Daire's mom had begun bustling around the stove and missed Lacey's
trepidatious
look around the kitchen.

Daire did not.

He stared at her a moment, seemingly conflicted. Then he forced a half-smile.              

"My brother, Ronan," he said apologetically. "He's a bit...private, donna care for strangers much. But dinna ye worry on it. I'll just go and have me a word."

Daire left the kitchen so abruptly, Lacey hadn't time to blink. She was still staring after him when his mother set the tea things down in front of her with a clatter. Lacey jumped.

The woman tsked and leaned over to pat Lacey's hand before sitting down across from her.

“Ah, lass, do nae look so nervous, we Fitzpatricks is an odd lot, I'll warrant you tha'. But all of us as resides here are a good uns. Some just take more...warming up than others."

Lacey took the hot mug of tea when it was handed to her, but couldn't quite met Moiré's kind gaze. Something was indeed odd here and not just how a man whom she had never seen before could look on her with such absolute loathing. Her tired mind couldn't grasp any of it. Yet she was dead sure of one thing. No force under heaven or on earth was
ever
going to make this Ronan Fitzpatrick warm up to her.

And she hadn't a damn clue why.

He couldn't believe she was here.

Here
—in the kitchen probably sipping tea with his mam right this minute! The image made him sick with rage, fear—and a longing that only made him angrier.

Ronan thought he'd prepared himself for the woman with the aquamarine eyes to show up, but he obviously hadn't really believed it was going to happen. At least not so damme
soon
. Walking in his home and seeing her in his brother’s arms had been a nasty full-on shock.

Two powerful feelings had immediately rose up in him. One had been the hatred, of course. Hatred for what she had to be bringing with her—more interference from the cursed gods. On the very heels of that had nipped an ugly, possessive rage. He’d had to crush the urge to hit Daire and rip the woman from his arms. The hunger of his dreams was nothing—
nothing
to what he’d felt confronted by her in reality. She stirred the beast inside him without lifting a tiny finger.

The way she pulled at him was unreal. It has been hinted of in his dreams, true enough, but face to face—

Ronan clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists.

Her pixie's face had been framed by a lively cap of gold hair, lit with just a touch of fire, and then those gorgeous eyes, huge and jewel-like—and the way her lush, little body had curled into his brother’s as if seeking protection when she’d seen him…

Kicking rocks out of his way as he skirted the steep hill behind the house, Ronan growled in frustration. First, he had frozen,
frozen
trying to control the emotions that had blasted through him in seconds—shock, fear, desire, hate— settling into fury at seeing her in his brother’s arms, this woman he had taken over and over so intimately in his dreams.

He'd had to force himself to concentrate on the
other
aspects of those dreams. So that with his next breath, he'd wanted to rip her from Daire and hurl her down the hill into Lough Gur.

If his cursed family left her alone for a second, he was still planning on doing precisely that.

He'd
never
felt so out of control, emotions buffeting him this way and that, in the space of a few seconds. Ronan knew he had only survived as long as he had by keeping his emotions tightly—even ruthlessly in check. Besides whatever magic this woman carried, she was obviously
far
too dangerous a temptation to him personally—

“Oy! Ronan! Hold it up a mo'."

Ronan didn't turn to face his brother, but he did stop at the edge of the tall hill next to a large lichen-covered stone, looking out over the long valley. The lough sparkled in the distance, but Ronan wasn't seeing it. He listened to Daire's footsteps approaching and gritted his teeth.

Ronan knew he was spoiling for a fight and despite how he would welcome that
so much
right now, it really wasn't the best idea. If Daire ended up in the lough, he'd never hear the end of it.

Ronan watched out of the corner of his eye while his brother leaned against the stone to catch his breath, with arms folded across his chest. When Daire looked up, his normally dancing blue eyes were flat.

"Ye scared her half to death. Since when did ye start terrifying tourists, I'd like to know?" Daire's voice was still a bit breathless, but Ronan heard the shock and disappointment in it.

He leveled a glare at the younger man.

"Do nae play dumb with me, little brother. Ye heard what I said to Mam."

"What, man? Tha' she's some sort o' witch from your dreams and all?"

Daire jerked an arm into air incredulously. "Damme, Ronan, she's
American!
She donna have anything to do with us—with
them
—or with you. How could she?"

Frowning, Ronan forced himself to consider his brother's words, flipping through what he remembered of the end of his dreams—the part he wanted most to forget. The sickening fear, the feeling that if he did not get away—get to where he needed so desperately to be—that his heart,
his very soul
was going to be torn out by the roots. Only a threat to his family could cause such a reaction. There had been moonlight and the trees flashing past, and always,
always
her behind him…with those large jewel-colored eyes. He didn't understand it, but he knew she was the cause of that desperation. It was unmistakable.

It
was
her.

"I donna know, Daire," he finally said heavily, dropping his arms and turning his gaze back to the woods below. "But give me some credit for knowing the gods’ work when I see it. This woman has
everything
to do with them. And Mam knows it, too! I could see it on her face." Ronan cursed and ran a hand through his already disheveled black hair. "She won't tell me what she sees—just hints she canna see it properly. But she's hiding something and I do nae know why!"

Daire reached out a hand and shook his brother's shoulder until Ronan met his gaze again. This time Daire did not look angry, but too old and wise and sad for even for his true years. "Sure, ye do," he said softly. "She thinks she's seen a way out for you."

Ronan's eyes snapped. "What has she told ye?"

"Naught." Daire sighed. "But I can see it in her eyes, Ronan.
Hope.
She's been burning with it these last few weeks."

Frustration and fury vibrated through Ronan and he lashed out without thinking. "Then she's a fool!"

Daire's fist was blindingly fast, but Ronan saw it coming. He just didn't bother to duck.

The white-hot burst of pain against his jaw did nothing to dampen his anger. He took a menacing step towards his youngest brother before he caught himself.

Daire looked at him with cool eyes.

"Ye'll naught talk about our mother like that. Naught to me, I do nae care how right ye think ye are."

Ronan said nothing. But his teeth grinding together spoke volumes.

Daire shook his head then, and said quietly, his words radiating with unspoken pain. "Are we all great fools then, Ronan? To have any hope t'all?"

"Yes." Ronan's lips were so stiff they barely moved.

"Well then, let me tell ye this, big brother." Daire's voice had quickly regained its heat. "I rather be a great bloody fool with hope, than a damme eejit without!" He started to stalk off down the rock and heather-dotted hillside, but whipped back angrily, his expression strained. "Ye know, Ronan, do ye naught even
consider
Mam could be right and somehow that lass has got the power to save us all?"

Ronan turned slowly to look down at him and Daire fought off a shudder at the cold certainty in his brother's eyes.

"The only power tha' woman possesses is one to take us straight to hell." Ronan moved away up the mountain with an eerie, loping speed that took him so far, so fast he did not hear Daire's soft reply.

"And here was me thinking we're there already." Daire closed his suddenly burning eyes briefly, before resuming his retreat to the valley and away from his cursed brother.

“So, 'tis all about a book, is it? Yer trip to Eire?” With a cheery smile, Moiré was placing more of her raspberry scones before Lacey. She was certain her American visitor didn’t have any idea she’d already eaten a whole plate of them to herself. Especially when she eagerly, though absently grabbed another, as she considered Moiré’s words.

Lacey took a bite and chewed slowly, her fingers brushing the little cascade of crumbs this way and that on butter-smooth finish of the oak tabletop.

“Well....yes. And
no
—not really. It was just an excuse, in a way. I mean, I
do
want to write, really write. I always have. Not just copy or the occasional magazine article and all, but an honest-to-goodness novel, but.... Well. I suppose it will sound silly to you. My family came from Ireland over three generations ago, my sister thinks I’m bonkers. But I
needed
to come here. I’ve been dreaming of coming to Ireland since I was this big.” She gestured with her hand well below the tall table and laughed self-consciously.

Moiré frowned and eased herself back into her chair. “I take dreams quite seriously, I do. Dreams can show us the future, and the past. I donna see why having dreams of yer home shoulda be thought mad.”

Lacey put down the scone and tried not to gape as she studied Moiré. This Irish lady was very pleasant company. She seemed to have an endless fascination with Lacey, encouraging her to talk and talk about herself, only interrupting to ask leading questions that led to more talk. It was easily the longest Lacey had conversed about herself to any one person in her entire life.

And
Moiré had a way of making her really
think
about her answers and reasons for them instead of just giving the stock replies most people seemed to accept without question.

Here and there throughout their conversation though, the older woman had said things that struck Lacey as positively strange. Like when Lacey had mentioned in passing that her sister had hated when she had started cutting her hair short as a teenager. Moiré had casually said that the short cut suited her much better, with the air of one who’d seen her otherwise. It had given Lacey pause, but Moiré had patted her hand and said she just meant it was obvious long hair would overwhelm Lacey’s fine features. That was a good answer, but it had felt like covering for a misstep. Which was impossible, but—

And now what was this business about Ireland being her
home
?

“Moiré, Ireland is hardly my home, I told you, I’m fourth generation,
half
-Irish. I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours.” Lacey gave a dry laugh. “And I can assure you, except for you, nothing very welcoming has happened. I think my sister had a point and I‘m too sentimental for my own good.”

Stirring her tea, Moiré just smiled. “Contrary to popular belief, lass, the Irish are far from a sentimental lot. But we do know a great deal about heart, and if yer heart has been telling ye since ye were a wee one tha' this is where ye belong, I’d nae be arguing with it, if I were ye. The heart knows things the mind donna.”

Because she couldn't think of an answer to that, Lacey took a sip of tea, wincing a little at the strong taste. She
had
always thought that Ireland would feel like home, that when she finally got here maybe she would....fit in, for once in her damn life.

She'd never told anyone that.

Never really faced it herself.  It seemed far too pathetic. Moiré had pulled those feelings out of her in a short half-hour conversation, laid bare Lacey's most secret hopes—and most remarkable of all—didn't seem interested in judging her for them.

Lacey leaned back in her chair, her eyes widening in the realization that she
did
feel at home here, completely at ease. At least with this woman, at this moment.

It was a sweet, but short-lived moment.

Daire walked back into the kitchen. He'd tried to compose his handsome face, but Lacey could see he was pale with some suppressed emotion. He and Moiré exchanged a quick glance that burst Lacey's warm cozy bubble as effectively as a needle. However appealing this family was—at least most of it—they had their own issues. She was intruding.

"Look," she said into the silence, getting to her feet and absently stacking the remnants of Moiré and hers—mostly hers—late morning tea. "I really should be getting back to my car. If I could just borrow your telephone, I can get out of your hair..."

She broke off as two faces swiveled to her with identical expressions of chagrin. She continued hastily, tripping over words in her haste not to seem ungrateful. "Not that you haven't been just lovely, Moiré. And you, too, Daire. Umm...not lovely. In your case, I mean, Daire, but…umm...strong and helpful, of course, and..."

Feeling like an inarticulate idiot, Lacey scooped up the plates, which was an unfortunate choice on her part, as her hands were shaking rather badly.

The ensuing crash was thunderous enough to draw the children to the open glass door, where they stared in at the wreckage and three frozen adults.

"What was
tha'
, Maman?"

"Goodness, did the American girl do tha'? Well, tha's just rude." Lacey had no trouble recognizing the girl Chloe's voice.

"Do ye think Maman put Irish in the tea, like Da likes sometimes?"

"Sure! And the American lady got ossified and dropped all the dishes." This was spoken in frankly gleeful tones that sent Lacey's lips quivering. Daire's jaw was twitching. Moiré put a hand to her mouth.

Then Chloe said, in a superior, instructing sort of way. "Well, o’ course, that'd be it. Everyone
knows
Americans can't hold their Irish."

As if on cue all three grown-ups burst out laughing, even Lacey. It was the spontaneous, silly sort of laughter that was completely disproportionate to the cause, but that one just can’t help.