Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (7 page)

Aine made an impatient sound. "Ye must wait. If ye kill her now, it's no' a willing sacrifice. Wait and I guarantee ye it will be. Besides, if ye do it now, ye won't really
hurt
him. I thought ye wanted to savor his pain."

"Oh, I do. I do. But I just can't quite seem to trust you. Isn't that sad?" Aillen stared at his steepled fingers with their sharp yellowish nails, before calling in that rusty nails voice. "Orthannach?"

"Nae." Aine whispered, all pretense gone. Her eyes were wild as she watched Aillen's vassal approach. Huge, like all the Fomorians, Orthannach carried a whip in one of his misshapen limbs, a horrible joy shining out of all five of his grotesque eyeballs. "I'm telling ye the truth!"

“Mayhap so." Aillen nodded, his eyes amused as he watched Orthannach push his sister face first against the stone walls and clap her limp hands in the rings that hung there. She knew it was pointless to resist. He’d taught her well. Her powers were stronger than his, in truth—but his were more insidious and his network was nearly limitless. She had learned she could submit now, or suffer a hundredfold later.

Orthannach's smile widened and a sticky string of drool hung down from it wet loops as he ripped Aine's dress down the back, exposing her ivory shoulders.

He looked back at his master, the whip cocked over his hunched red spine. Aillen inclined his head and Orthannach struck.

Aine's scream rang out like music to his frayed nerves. Instantly, he felt soothed. But it was not enough. It never was.

Aillen sighed in feigned regret as he repeated his words. "Mayhap so, sister. But you do bleed so prettily." He stood up and walked to where she writhed against the damp walls. He watched the cuts form on her pale skin, thick and angry and red against all that alabaster. Healing almost instantly, but then the whip would come down again and rip her open. Over and over. He sighed and ran one ragged nail against a particularly deep gash before it could close. She whimpered and laid her head against the stone, her face averted from him, her shoulders shaking.

"Fifty lashes, I think, Orthannach." Aillen smiled. Family could be
so
useful. Aillen sucked her blood off the tip of his finger as he moved away, the sweet sound of her screams following him deeper into the belly of the mountain.

Lacey gave a delicious stretch, feeling the sun caressing her face with warmth. She'd never felt so well-rested in her life. It was as if she'd soaked in a hot-tub for days, had an hours-long massage and slept wrapped in strong arms. Strong arms she could almost still feel around her…

Lacey opened her eyes with a sleepy half-smile.

Cold unease flooded into her warm cocoon at the sight of the still unfamiliar pink room.

She remembered everything that had happened in the dark hours in one fell swoop. Here, before sunshine was drenching every corner as it did now. Teddy bears and dolls lined the fairy-tale pink dresser, the large mirror behind it glimmered in the daylight. It reflected back Lacey's eyes peaking from beneath the heavy rose & white checked duvet.

It seemed impossible a man had walked into this haven of innocence last night and tried to
kill
her. Let alone grilled her for an hour about a nightmare she did not want to remember.

Lacey let her head fall back onto the pillow. But she did remember, all too clearly. Especially the images from the dream she wanted most to forget. Not the pain, or the terrible mind-numbing despair, but the feel of
him
, having his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin—of him
inside
her—and her wanting it. Wanting him so badly, the memories alone made her ache.

Even after what he'd done to her last night, she couldn't erase those erotic images from her head. Sitting in that room, talking to him had been the hardest thing she'd done in her life. He pulled at her in a way she had thought was impossible.

She could smell him on her skin, a spice-infused, smoky scent that reminded her vaguely of burning cedar. Lacey sure as hell couldn't fool herself into thinking she didn't want him. She shut her eyes tightly as liquid heat stole low down into her belly at those dream memories that hadn't happened. That, as she had told him, weren't
ever
going to happen. Goddamn it!

She was a healthy woman; a vibrant, successful young woman. She'd had lovers, and she enjoyed sex, even if she didn't have time for it often enough. Lacey knew she could've made more time, if she'd wanted to.

But she'd never wanted another man the same way she did him.

What did that make her?

Desiring a man who looked at her with eyes dark with malice? Who had actually put one of those warm, terrifyingly strong hands around her throat and almost
strangled
her?

Even in a dream, that was a little sick, and in real life it was full-blown fucked up. She couldn’t forget the way he'd healed her either. The warmth of his fingers soothing her throat. The way his eyes had softened for the barest instant and she'd seen a glimpse of a very different man. A man wrapped in darkness, yes. But a mesmerizing man nevertheless...

Lacey shook her head. He was out of his mind. He had to be. The things he'd done....that he’d said….

Maybe that was why his family hadn't mentioned him at all last night. He was deranged.

God, his poor mother!

By focusing on her sympathy for Moiré, Lacey tried hard, but unsuccessfully, to shove aside her niggling doubts at the easy explanation of a mental deficiency.  For one thing, Ronan seemed a man in
acute
control of his mind, besides the fact that crazy sure as hell didn't explain away the healing cobalt fire.

Unless
she
was the one losing it.

Disgusted with herself, she threw the covers off and walked to the vanity mirror. She'd never been a scrapper, it was true. Lacey accepted that about herself, as she accepted a lot of things. It was her nature. She was a go-with-the-flow kind of girl. At least until her recent decision to dump her successful job and jump on a plane to Ireland to write a novel she hadn’t even thought of yet….

Lacey winced.

Still, she'd never been one to deny reality simply to make herself feel better. She wasn't going to start now. It was obvious she'd seen magic. Not Criss Angel Las Vegas sleight-of-hand—but the real damn thing.

So, what explanation was there, then? If Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn't insane, what was she left with? And what did she say to his mother this morning? A woman who had quickly become important to her.

'Yes, thanks, I slept very well—at least after your son came in and tried to kill me. But I guess he changed his mind at the last second. What was that? Oh…why don’t I have a mark on me? Well, he sort of healed me with this magic light that came from his hands—'

With a groan, Lacey put her hands to her cheeks and stared wild-eyed at her reflection.

Despite the night she'd had, all the emotions she was dealing with and the state of her
hair
, she actually looked pretty good. Her skin was glowing and her eyes were so bright, they practically glittered. Damn, whatever he had in that cobalt light of his, he should bottle it.

Lacey groaned again, and her head rolled back until she stared up at the exposed beams of the ceiling. She wondered what it would be like to have her head filled with rational thoughts, the way it used to be, before she came to Ireland.

Then she caught the whiff of baking scones. Thinking rationally took a backseat to getting dressed as quickly as possible and somehow getting her hair to stop standing on end.

The kitchen was bright and sunny—and so was Moiré. She was singing when Lacey came in, something sweet and low. She saw Lacey just as she was taking a pan from the oven, the smell so heavenly Lacey practically got tears in her eyes.

"Ah," she laughed when she saw Lacey. "I thought I might rise ye with these." She set the pan down on the broad stone counters and started scooping the hot scones into a basket lined in cheery calico.

“I knew ye needed yer rest, so I didna wake ye for breakfast, but land's alive, lass! I n'ver thought ye'd sleep the whole morn away."

Moiré chuckled and gave a peek over her shoulder at Lacey, still standing in the doorway wearing the one sleeveless top she'd packed, vivid blue with a scooped neckline, and snug cream-colored knit pants.

"Sure though, donna ye look a thousand times better'? Come and sit down, then! These are nae gonna get in yer belly from way over there."             

Moiré had a knack for making Lacey immediately comfortable. She was like soft blankets, toasty socks and cookies all bundled into one delightful package.

"You won't have to ask me twice." She walked over and put a scone on the plate Moiré handed her, considered, and added another. Moiré gave her a wink and added one more.

They sat companionably at the table again. Moiré letting Lacey eat while she sipped her tea. Lacey remembered with a rush of guilt that she still hadn't called Kate.

"Oh," she groaned. "Moiré, I really do have to borrow your phone today, if you don't mind."

"Oh, aye. But if yer plannin' on getting shut of us, I'll warn ye now—I'm hiding me scones." Moiré's tone was light as the sunbeams streaming through the kitchen window, but her brown eyes looked truly concerned.

"Do you really think I'd be able to venture far, with this smell in the air?" Lacey said, raising a scone before taking a bite. "I've just got to call my sister. I've got my card and all, so you won't be charged or anything."

Moiré looked immediately contrite. "Oh dear, I'd clean forgotten about yer sister. Poor thing's probably nigh worried to death about ye."

"Actually, she'll probably be so furious when she finds out I'm alright, that she'll ring my neck—through the phone." Lacey snorted, then choked briefly on a scone as she realized what she'd said.

Moiré just handed her a napkin.

"Ah," she said wisely. "Tha's family for ye, but they're a blessing like nae other. Just keep tha' in mind when she's doing her yelling." Moiré gave her a wink. The woman was a real peach. It wasn't fair she had to have such an awful son. At least she had the rest of the family. That thought had Lacey looking up in sudden puzzlement.

"It's so quiet! Where in the world is everyone at?"

Moiré leaned back in her chair with her tea. She seemed amused.

"Wondered when ye'd notice that. Shelagh and the girls are up to Limerick shopping, and Daire and Michael took the boys out for a bit o' boating."

Where Ronan figured in all this hubbub, Lacey dearly wanted to know. Maybe he'd gone boating, too? She couldn't bring herself to ask and listened to Moiré chatter instead.

"They wanted ye to come, but I saved you there. If ye never been boating with a passle of boys and a couple of men who're naught but big boys themselves, ye've nae idea the debt ye owe me."

Lacey smiled. "I can imagine. But it must be nice for them, with a boat and Lough Gur so close."

“Lough Gur?" Moiré repeated, incredulous. "Nae, lass. We do no boating on the lough. Heaven's, and wouldna Aine have a fit?" She spoke the last softly and half to herself.

Lacey frowned. "Well, I know she doesn't seem the friendliest person, but surely she doesn't own the whole damn lake."

Moiré looked sharply at Lacey. "What's that ye're saying?"

"Aine," Lacey continued, wondering why Moiré's hands were suddenly gripping her tea cup so hard they were white. "She isn't really as bad as all that, is she? She was pretty decent to me, actually— "

"Was she?"

Lacey could swear she felt the table vibrating with the deep timbre of that voice, even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when she realized Ronan was behind her. She should've guessed he wasn't the boating type. He moved around her and the table like a big, dark predator, his smell making her stomach tighten.

She had stiffened her spine so she wouldn't shy away as he moved past, though dipping her head so Moiré wouldn't catch her nervousness. But Lacey had to look up in amazement as he stole a scone from her plate and took a lazy bite.

Ronan leaned against the table next to Moiré, who was also giving him a strange look, her fingers still white in their hold on the yellow-flowered cup. He was dressed casually in a plain grey T-shirt and jeans, his big feet were bare and his thick black hair was mussed. Ronan smiled at her for the first time and the effect was so stunning Lacey felt a bit light-headed.

"I dinna mean to interrupt your conversation. Forgive me. Ye said something about our neighbor?" Ronan said with a wink.

This polite flirt was
not
the man that had come to her last night. She felt like she'd been plunged into
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde
. Lacey shook her head slowly, trying to focus.

“Ummm...yes. Aine, the dark-haired woman with the goose? She shared some bread with me yesterday at the lough and told me to come here."

Moiré let out a sound of distress and Ronan dropped a gentle, but quieting hand to his mother’s shoulder, still looking at Lacey.

"Did she now?" he said softly. Ronan chewed his scone with deliberation, the planes of his jaw sharp, his eyes like dark smoke on hers. Watching him watch her, Lacey realized his easy demeanor was a farce, that he was angry—as in stone-cold, crazy furious.

Her fingernails dug into her palm beneath the table. Lacey wanted to believe she wouldn’t play the victim again if he lashed out, but she was feeling very cowardly at the moment.

“Isn’t that interesting, Mam? Aine sending her
here
? One might wonder about her motivations, hmmm?”

Moiré’s lips were compressed into a thin line and she glared, actually glared up at her son.

Lacey’s mouth fell open. There was an undercurrent in this conversation that she wasn‘t getting.

“Now 'tis nae the time, Ronan,” his mother spoke warningly, her gaze flicking to Lacey.

Ronan rolled away from the counter with an oath, his lean, powerful body abruptly seemed much too big for the kitchen, much too big for the whole
house
. Lacey could see the hard muscles of his shoulders standing out like thick cords under the fabric of his shirt.

“What is the good of playing these games, Mam? Especially now that she’s seen Aine? That Aine
choose
to appear to
her
? I know she’s involved, ye know she’s involved, the only one who donna seems to be herself.” He flung a hand toward Lacey.

“Fer God’s sake, Ronan.” Moiré said, watching Lacey’s face pale with fear and confusion. “Have some mercy.”

“Mercy?” Ronan spat the word. “Do nae ask the impossible, Mam. You’re the one who was so keen to have her here.
Tell her
.” Lacey sat rooted to her chair, the still-sunny, wide and welcoming kitchen had turned menacingly surreal.

Moiré sighed and reached for the one of Lacey’s hands that still lay curled on the table near the half-empty plate of scones. Lacey certainly didn’t want to be touched, by Moiré or anyone at the moment, but found herself unable to pull away. Moiré’s hand was warm as an oven mitt around her own frozen fingers.

“This will nae be easy for ye, lass.” she said in a low, urgent voice. “But ye must try and be strong and open yer mind’s eye wide. I’ll start with a tale, a very old Irish tale.” She took a deep breath and told Lacey the ancient myth of the
faoladh.
About Natilus, the priest, the celebration and the cursed family,
Mac Giolla Phadraig—