Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (5 page)

Moiré was wiping tears away with a corner of her apron, her cheeks rosy and Daire was holding his sides. Lacey sat back in her chair, giggling and hiccupping.

The children watched through the doorway a moment longer, the blank looks on their faces so priceless it only served to send the adults into further fits. Finally, the little mob turned from the scene in confused disgust.

Colin leaned over to elbow one of his elder brothers in the ribs as they ran away.

"Damme, Eamon. Do ye think they
all
got into Da's Irish?"

Thankfully, no one in the kitchen heard him. They were just getting their breath back. Moiré looked over at Lacey, in what she meant to be a stern manner. The laughter in her voice rather spoiled the effect.

“Mind, I'll hear no more of this 'getting out of our hair' and such like. Ye'll stay with us until Daire and Michael can deal with yer car. No' a word, now," she put up a hand as Lacey made to speak, "or ye really
will
offend me. Ye best go on and fetch her things then and see the damage." This last was spoken to Daire, who nodded and rose from his perch on the counter. Lacey got to her feet, as well, which had two heads turning in her direction once more, both of them frowning.

"Now what'd I do?" She asked with exasperation.

"Well, where'd ye think ye're going?" Daire demanded, before his mother could get a word in. "Tis light enough ye are, but I've nae wish to carry ye to the lough and back."

Lacey frowned at him. "I'm not so helpless as all that, Daire Fitzpatrick—"

But Moiré cut her off. "Now, lass, ye're all in, that nap on yer car," Daire's eyebrows shot up at this but Moiré shushed him with a finger, "is the only rest ye've had, in what? Two days? Nae, ye'll not be leaving this house until ye've gotten yer forty winks. Maybe more, if ye still look peaked to these eyes. Ye just give Daire the general idea of where ye left it and he'll find yer car, sure enough."

It was obvious Moiré wasn't going to be dissuaded. Lacey handed over her keys and after telling Daire about the two paths, he nodded and left out the back.

Daire was so intent on his task, he missed the quiet shadow under the eaves.

Ronan watched his brother go, his own body blending easily into the darkness where he leaned against the outer kitchen wall. He'd heard enough to know he'd been right where his mother was concerned. She wasn’t going to listen to him at all. It was unfortunate he still loved them so fiercely, because his family was bound and determined to drive him to murder.

His brother faded into the distance. Ronan turned to lean his hot forehead against the cool stone of the wall.

She certainly
sounded
normal enough, this American woman, laughing with his Mam and Daire. He'd heard her peals of laughter. The very sound had made his blood heat.

It was undoubtedly just a game to her—gaining their trust. Which they gave so easily, it could hardly be much of a challenge. His family never learned. She’d not find
him
so pliable.

But it was hard not to remember the way that laughing mouth had felt in the dreams, moving under his, the sound of her gasps, and
gods
, the feel of her lips wrapped around him...

Ronan closed his eyes and pressed his head harder into the stone, until the pressure became painful, rather than pleasant. Lust and rage did not make for good bedfellows, he felt like a man possessed by warring demons. A conflict he could ill afford.

Ronan cursed, hating the lingering shreds of his humanity more at that moment than ever before. He'd danced with the gods too long, he knew how easy it was to get crushed. If his family wouldn't take steps to protect themselves, he would.

As he always had.

He'd go to her tonight, while everyone so bound and determined to protect her would be asleep and then....Ronan's lips tightened.

Well, it was quite simple. Either she'd leave or she'd have to die. He didn't relish killing a human—if she even was human. That remained to be seen. The fae and demons took so many guises it wasn’t always possible to tell, not to mention the many forms of the gods themselves. So much the better if she
wasn't
human, at least for what remained of his conscience.

By confronting her immediately, he should have the element of surprise. The dream confrontation had taken place at the full moon, which was his strongest time and when anyone who knew what he was would
expect
him to attack.

He'd not be so predictable, and he’d not wait for whatever trap was being laid around him. A very long lifetime of seeing what the fates were capable of had given Ronan the deepest conviction in his own instincts.

However—if he was wrong and what power she possessed, or had a hand in, was already sufficient to bring about his end—

Ronan raised his head and glared at the kitchen wall, where he could still hear the sounds of her and his mother chatting happily while dishes clattered.

Well then…he'd at least see what color she bled before he died.

They really were an amazing family, the Fitzpatricks, Lacey thought for what had to be the tenth time that day.

Moiré and her gorgeous daughter-in-law, Shelagh were pulling soda bread from the oven at the moment and the delicious scent combined with fragrant smell of lamb stew bubbling of the back of the stove, might have influenced her goodwill somewhat.

But only somewhat.

She'd never meet any group of people as nice as this family. Ever. And Lacey had lived in Minnesota her whole life, a place practically synonymous with
nice
.

Only the Fitzpatricks weren’t merely nice. They were fun and capable, too. Earlier, after Lacey had had a lovely, hot and
long
shower and was feeling somewhat human again, Daire had returned to the house with the brother she hadn’t met yet—the one with all the children. Michael—who turned out to be quite like Daire and not the other cold-eyed brother—was a man with an easy smile that he used often. Even when he announced blithely that not only did Lacey’s rented Anglia have three quite flat tires, but also a snapped rear axle.

At her stunned gasp, he had practically fallen over himself to assure her they’d already had a friend tow the car into Limerick, which was the only town near with a mechanic capable of fixing it. It also just so happened that said mechanic was a friend of theirs and would fix the damn thing at cost, as a favor to the Fitzpatricks.

So once again, she’d cycled from disaster to relief in head-spinning succession.

It was becoming an annoyingly frequent happenstance lately. Lacey had also gotten a nap—in a truly amazing bed with a goose down-filled mattress and pillow. She’d slept three hours. When she awoke, Moiré had firmly refused her help with dinner.

Instead, she had been pushed into a chair by the fire, a peat one that smelled sweet and smoky—almost as wonderful as the food—and was bidden not to move on pain of torture. Then, she was surrounded by a horde of freshly-washed children clamoring for stories about America. She was happy to comply.

After stuffing herself shamelessly with the delicious dinner, Lacey finally felt not hungry for the first time since she’d left home. It really was a very pleasant feeling, to be full of good food in a house full of good will. Moiré had just ordered her to bed early and Lacey was still too exhausted to protest.

She felt so sleepy as she made her way slowly down the hall to the little pink room she’d napped in that afternoon. Pictures lined the hallway walls and though she couldn’t make out details in the dim light, most of them seemed to be of various Fitzpatricks with their arms slung comfortably around each other. They were a particularly close family, anyone could sense that.

Which made it curious that no one had mentioned the other brother—Ronan—all night. Not even the children.

Not once.

It made her wonder if he was always a pariah—that his off-putting behavior really had nothing to do with her personally. A comforting thought.

One she found herself unable to swallow. Everything about the malice in those eyes had been personal. Very.

Lacey sighed, eyeing her reflection in a huge gilt mirror as she yawned widely. She had no energy for solving a mystery tonight. She was just too damn tired.

Even when her head sunk into the downy softness of her pillow and she realized she hadn’t called Kate, she couldn’t bribe her body into moving.
Tomorrow
, she thought, sleepily. It will all wait for tomorrow.

But the dreams didn’t wait. They pounced the moment her eyes closed.

In them the man with gray eyes was waiting.

He'd had to wait hours before he was convinced no one was stirring. Hours of muscle-knotting tension. But when Ronan finally slipped into her room, he was a fluid shadow. Loose and ready for battle, wearing only the light sweatpants he donned when transformation was imminent over his muscular body. Even though he would not, could not transform tonight—a waning night—he was ready for anything. His sword, the
claíomh na gréine
given to him by Lugh himself, was slung between his shoulder blades.

Oh yes, he was
more
than ready.

His mother had given the woman the twin’s room, which was right next to her own. The large pink bed with its pile of stuffed animals at the foot was incongruous with his dark, murderous mood. Which was nothing to his fury when he slipped nearer and saw the bed was mussed—but empty.

"
Damnú air
!" He breathed.

“Did you plan on murdering me in my sleep then?” The soft voice from behind him nearly made his heart stop.

Ronan forced himself to turn slowly, showing no sign of weakness or surprise. His keen eyes could scarce make out her faint outline, huddled in the old settee the girls had shoved under the low-slung eaves. He didn’t reply but moved closer.

She shifted and he caught a glint of bright hair in the slice of moonlight that had slipped through a gap in the heavy lace curtains.

“That’s close enough, I think.” For the first time, Ronan noticed her voice was hoarse—as if she’d been crying—and that it fair shook with terror, though her next words were firm enough. “I haven’t made up my mind whether or not it’s a good idea to scream.”

“'Tis no'.” He growled, ignoring her signs of distress. It was undoubtedly a trap to pull him in so she could strike when his defenses were down. “If ye bring my family into this ye canna imagine what I’ll do to ye.”

“Oh, I’m not sure you’re right about that. I think I’ve just had a preview.” This time when she moved Ronan caught the sheen of a wet cheek, and her voice
was
unmistakably shaking. She sounded terrified...and utterly forlorn. It was an effort to ignore the compassion that instinctively rose in him…but Ronan contemplated the price of such weakness and cut it off at the knees.

“Enough with these games, witch,” he hissed. “I’ll be stopping ye before this goes any further.”

“Witch?!”
he heard her whisper to herself, as if in shock. Impatient with all this play-acting, Ronan strode to the window in two long strides and tore the curtains from their rod. He dropped them to the floor, grunting in satisfaction as both moon and starlight illuminated the room.

“I care not what ye call yourself,
Lacey Ryan
," Ronan spat, using the name he'd heard his mam call her through the kitchen walls. "Witch or sorceress or plain she-devil. I know naught except ye are no Changeling. But ye’re here to do ill, do nae deny it!”

Ronan had spoken before turning to face her and when he did, he was struck by how skilled her treachery was.

Cast in the silver glow flooding the room, she was pale as water, wearing a scrap of white cotton that left most of her shoulders and legs bare. Clutching her knees to her chest, her eyes were huge and shadowed and fixed on him in apparently bewildered terror as she shivered on the settee.

It made him sick to his stomach to see a woman cower from him like that—and the sight of her tears was nearly as bad. Ronan reminded himself that evil can play the heart’s strings with a melody so cunning even the strongest are brought to their knees.

She was playing him, she
had
to be.

He leapt across the room, his hand shooting out to grasp her by the throat and yank her gasping to her feet.

Ronan pressed his face into hers.

“Stop the charade,
bitseach
," he whispered, his lips brushing the hair at her temple. He could feel the breath jetting from her mouth as she struggled for air, both her hands scrambling at the iron muscles of his forearm. He tightened his grip, feeling the delicate bones of her jaw under his thumb and forefinger. “We both know ye…”

His voice trailed off.

Her breath had ceased to warm his face and her fingers were slipping from his arm like slackened ribbons. Ronan frowned.

This was altogether too easy.
Another trick
, he thought in disgust. Until her body went limp and her eyes—those terribly beautiful eyes—started to roll back in her head.

She was dying.

If it was a trick, it was going to be a damn permanent one. For a long, slow moment, Ronan twisted on the spit of indecision, unable to reconcile a victory in what felt more like a slaughter.

With an oath, he flung her back onto the settee.

Ronan moved to the bare window frame, ignoring the pitiful choking sounds from behind him, his whole body shaking with furious confusion. What
was
this madness?

His head pounded with the need to understand, and he barely resisted the urge to pound his fists likewise into the sill. He wasn’t
wrong!
This was no mere mortal, no matter what his daft brother thought. He didn’t dream of
mere mortals
.
He
didn’t wake covered in the cold sweat of fear because of some stranded tourist. Gods’ play
was
at work here and he would damme well find out how!

He whipped around and stalked to where the woman lay. She scrambled up quickly as he approached, one hand at her already bruising throat. He ignored the way she flinched as he knelt down so that they were eye to eye. Or almost. She was so damn small that even on his knees she was forced to tilt her head to meet his gaze. Perhaps that was all part of the trick, using her size to manipulate him into complacency—counting on his instinctive need to protect. He clenched his teeth.

Ronan had to focus on every syllable to keep from shouting, even so, the words ground against each other like stones.

“You. Will. Tell. Me. Everything. You. Know.
Understand?”

She stared at him with wide, wet eyes before nodding, but even that slight movement had her wincing, then coughing again. Ronan swallowed, the taste in his own throat bitter. He was not accustomed to inflicting pain on the weak.

It rankled.

With a sigh, Ronan stretched out his fingers. The woman made a strangled sort of yelp and jerked away. He glared at her and shook his head warningly. It was an effort for him to remain wary of her. She looked so lost and full of pain as her eyes darted to his fingers, then his face.

Obviously realizing there was no option, she lifted her chin and glared right back at him. The show of spirit might have been more convincing if her lips and every inch of her body hadn’t been trembling.

Ronan stretched out his hand again and held it an inch from her injured throat, breathing shallow and fast until the light he willed into being danced across his fingers, starting out silver, but fast becoming an intense cobalt.

Her eyes widened in the glow and her delicate nostrils flared. He could tell it took every ouch of courage she had not to scramble away—and he wondered about that as well. His magic was scant, being innate and would impress no real practitioner of the art.

It was effective enough for this.

His fingers caressed her throat once, gently. She was soft as a rose petal and the way she trembled under his touch made him suck in a breath. The light jumped from his fingers to her skin, flared up briefly like flames in a breeze, then flickered and faded. The sharp tang of smoke drifted through the air.

Both of her hands darted to her now unmarked throat. Cautiously, she took a deep breath and then another, all without coughing. She bit her lip, her eyes dancing to his and away, her hands falling to her lap and twisting together.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me how you did that?” Her voice came out as a whisper, even though he know his healing had been complete.

Ronan rolled his shoulders in dismissal. “I can undo damage I’ve wrought. Though I canna bring back the dead, which is what ye’ll be, if ye don’t start talking.”

"I honestly have no idea what you expect me to say. I'm pretty damn sure I'm the most clueless person in this room at the moment." She swallowed nervously but met his gaze with a defiant one of her own.

Ronan narrowed his. "Well, why donna ye start with how ye knew I was coming tonight, if yer so 'clueless'?"

"I didn't
know
anything! I just had a dream—a really terrible dream. I couldn't go back to sleep after that. You were in it—"  Her voice faded and she shuddered once.

"Ye had a dream about me?" Ronan kept his tone mild, despite his suddenly thundering heartbeat, watching her face.

"Well, yes. It was in the woods agai
n—
"

"Again?" he growled.

"I had a dream last night, too." She stared up at him and tucked her legs beneath her, the scalloped edge of her nightdress slipping high on her slender thighs.

Ronan despised how aware he was of her. He felt like an opium addict, with a pipe just within reach. The mouth-watering smell of her teased at him, light as heather in the dew. He had to push himself to concentrate on her words.

"My…my sister had a nightmare about me the night I left and it freaked her out. I guess it freaked me out, too. I had a dream just like the one she'd described. It was really your stock nightmare—dark woods, me alone, running from something awful…"