Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (8 page)

At the end, Lacey just stared at them both blankly. Moiré sighed. “
We’re
that family, Lacey. Mac Giolla Phadraig is the old name for clan Fitzpatrick—

“Wait just a minute! I know I’m a bit out of it here, but what
exactly
are you trying to tell me?
Not
that he’s really a...” she couldn’t look at Ronan, but unbidden the huge monster from her dream surfaced and Lacey shivered.
Werewolf.

No, it couldn’t be. It
couldn’t,
this was just too much madness…! But the kind face in front of her was resigned, calm and deadly serious.

Lacey forced herself to continue anyway, trying vainly to interject some rationality into this conversation. “Besides, how could a Catholic priest
curse
anyone? I thought only wizards or, I don’t know,
gods
could curse someone? Priests don’t have magic powers, they are just normal humans…aren‘t they?”

And that made her feel ridiculous, taking the story as if it could possibly be
fact
. She was losing her mind right along with the whole Fitzpatrick family. As nice and normal as most of them seemed, they must all be crazy.
Batshit crazy.

Ronan was just mean and crazy both.

Ronan rolled his eyes and stopped pacing from the glass doors to the table, as he had throughout his mother's tale. He stalked over to them, turned a chair so that it faced away from the table and sat down, his big arms wrapped around its ladder-back so tightly Lacey decided it was destined to be kindling.

“Why do ye feel the need to give it to her in bites, Mam? That damme story inna even true, even she can see that.”

“So what is true, then?” Lacey snapped, surprising herself. She got to her feet, her arms hugging her chest. She really had to get away from these people. Her stomach was quivering like cold Jell-o, but she had had
enough
.

With sickening clarity, it hit her that she was out in the middle of nowhere, in a strange country, without a car, with a broken cell phone—and without
anyone
who cared about her knowing just exactly where she was. The edges of her vision began to darken and swirl and her throat suddenly tasted like rusty metal.

Two hard hands grabbed her upper arms and shook her once sharply, “Is yer nerve that weak, lass?” Ronan’s face wavered in front of hers, disdain sketched in every hard line.

“Ronan!” His mother breathed, looking sad and distressed. Ronan just held up one hand briefly, before using it to seize Lacey again.

“Well, is it?” He demanded.

She pressed her lips together. What the hell did he expect from her? Lacey glared at him, her eyes glowing like blue-green coals.

“Get your hands off me.” She tried to shake him off, but those hands were like steel, not cruel, simply immovable.

“That’s better,” Ronan said. “I’m done with taking it easy. You’re going to see with your own eyes what ye need to and you will not faint, do ye hear?”             

How dare he order her around!

Lacey’s mind was spinning with rage and confusion as Ronan lifted her so that her bare toes just trailed over the flagged stone floor. When he turned her around, she was facing the mirror in the hallway, the large, ornate and golden one. He gripped her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Lacey met his eyes in the glass.

"Giving you a glimpse of what passes for my soul." he said. “Watch and donna turn away.”

Lacey stared at their reflections in the mirror. With him behind her, she looked impossibly small to her own eyes, the golden-red fluff of her hair barely brushed one of his biceps. His chest was firm against her back, rising and falling against her like warm bellows. The power of it would have knocked her over if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly.

The mirror began inexplicably to cloud. Smoky tendrils drifted over her and Ronan’s reflections, swiftly obscuring him, but leaving her reflection clear and sharp. 

Lacey’s throat tightened and her heart raced. She could
feel
him behind her, feel his hot breath trickling down to her ear, feel the rough skin of his hands against her bare shoulders, the hard muscles of his thighs brushing the backs of hers. She was so aware of him it hurt.

His physical presence didn’t diminish, didn't fade a bit as his reflection vanished. He was real and human and solid, her body certainly knew it—but whatever was taking shape in that smoke behind her reflection in the mirror was not. Not human, not Ronan.
Not real.

Except in her nightmares.

It was monstrously huge, standing upright it dwarfed her, rough black fur tipped with silver covering its powerful, wolf-like body. But it was like no wolf she’d ever seen before.

Wolves had never frightened her, even if they were predators. They may not have been exactly common in Minnesota, but she’d certainly seen wolves in person more than once. Even visited the wolf sanctuary up in Ely. She had always thought them fascinating and deadly and beautiful. This creature was all of that, but it made her blood freeze. Especially the long inky muzzle sparkling with bone-white teeth that seemed to be inches from her own neck.

Lacey knew then she wasn’t going to be able to follow Ronan‘s orders. Her head rolled up with her eyes and she slumped bonelessly against him.

Lugh sat in the bright hall of the Otherworld and brooded. He preferred this plane to Ti'rna N'og, despite the beauty of the nighttime city. An affinity for the earth and, of course, the day, were bred into his very bones.

His bones that had lately been humming with unease. Something crawled and scuttled in the shadows just outside his psyche, like an itch he couldn't scratch. There were always plots in the Tuatha de Nanaan court—it wouldn't be much of a court without them—but this didn't feel de Naanan to him.

The sun-god didn't want to admit it, but what it felt like was
Fomorian.
Something that shouldn’t be possible.

The Fomorians had owned Ireland—blood, stone and bone—before Danu and the rest of the de Nanaan had finally had enough. Evil, monstrous giants of the Otherworld, the Fomorians had been most unwilling to give up their emerald playground, especially to the de Nanaan, whom they considered little better than humans. War had raged for eons in Eire between the two factions. Until
he
had come into his own.

Lugh smiled grimly. He had bided his time, growing strong. And then stronger. Learning from his foster father,
Manannán mac Lir
, god of the sea.

Mac had seen him trained very well indeed. Hand to hand, on the sword, and the spear—which became his favored weapon—until he was nigh invincible on the field. In mind, body and spirit—Mac had carved him into a king. Lugh had finally done what Nuada could not. He crushed the last army of those evil, soul-sucking giants.

By cutting off the head of their leader, his own grandfather, Balor.

Peace, of a sort, had settled over the de Nanaan in the eons since. Oh, there were plenty of half-bloods around. He tolerated them, since he was nearly one himself. Mostly they stayed close to ground, trying to avoid his attention. Which was smart.

Then there was Aillen. The degenerate half-Fomorian offspring of Aine’s rutting father, Aengus.

Aillen would love to have a go at the throne, he was always looking for any chance to wrest control from the De Nanaan. Not that he had a bloody prayer of that. Still…

Lugh's hands tightened on the inlaid gold of his lavish, mahogany throne. That bastard enjoyed thumbing his nose at him. Too bad for Aillen, his little half-sister had made a grave mistake and given him Ronan. Aine didn't always think before she acted.

Hell, make that never.

She might know what her brother was currently up to, though. It wouldn't hurt to have an update. If the trouble was Fomorian, Aillen would be in the thick of it. And that meant Aine...

Lugh considered before plucking up a bell from one of dozens that hung on the arms of his throne. This one was silver and tiny and had a delicate clapper shaped like the sickle moon. He rang it. Then again, impatiently. He had just shook it for the third time, when Aine materialized in front of him.

She knelt immediately, touching her forehead to the ground. "Sire?" she said breathlessly.

"Care to explain what ye were doing that was so important ye would ignore me?" He pitched his voice low and easy, but Aine wasn't fooled. For once, her gaze held more fright than sass as she lifted her dark head. That was unusual indeed. He didn't like to see Aine cower. In fact, one of the things that tantalized him about her most was her cursed pride.

He wondered who had cracked it. Surprised to feel anger snap through his veins.

"I could never ignore you, your Majesty. I was just...not fit to appear before ye." She did look a bit frazzled to his sharp eyes, even though she
had
obviously dressed herself to please him. She was wearing a sheath of velvet in deep gold, his favorite color. It rode high on her thighs in her prone position, taking the edge off his anger with the tang of lust he always felt around her. The little tramp knew she appealed to him and she milked it for all it was worth.

But she was a goddess, she didn't need
time
to arrange herself.

Lugh's eyes narrowed.

“Ye must have been quite indisposed to take so long answering my summons." He relented a fraction at her imploring look.

Waving a hand he gave her permission to rise. She did so gracefully and approached the dais, her black hair dancing. She looked frazzled no more but oddly determined. His tension eased slightly. This was more like the Aine he knew.

"Just a family squabble, love. Nothing to interest the king."

“Really? Why would you and Aillen fight?"

Aine gave him a sharp look, before softening her expression and forcing a laugh. "Who said anything about my stupid brother, Majesty?" There was a brittle edge to her tone he could not place. "Twas Fand I had a row with. And nae a pretty one."

Lugh couldn't imagine the insipid fairy queen rowing with anyone, but had he been able to, he still would have known Aine was lying. She had boldly walked up the three steps of the dais now and even though he knew that look in her eye, he was surprised when she knelt again.

This time between his outstretched legs. Her delicate hands slid up the powerful muscles of his thighs, skimming over the soft, skin-tight leather breeches he favored.

"That so?" He said lazily as she undid the thongs at his crotch. Hating the way she could get to him. Every time. He couldn't conceal his reaction to her. He didn’t try. His erection sprang free—rigid and thick already.

She smiled. "Do ye really want to
talk,
love?"

“Why else would I have called ye?" But Lugh's voice was strained as she bent and circled her tongue around the swollen head of his sex.

"You don't call on me for talk, your Majesty." Aine's practiced giggle momentarily distracted him from the flash of bitterness in her cobalt eyes. Then she took him into her mouth and he could scarcely think at all.

Lugh closed his own eyes. He knew she was using her power over him to conceal something. And he
would
find out what it was.

She knew it and he knew it. But for now he slid his fingers into the fine silky hair at her nape and enjoyed the pleasure she was offering.

He did relish a good offering.

Something smelled strongly of lemons and jasmine.

Lacey's eyes fluttered open. She was lying down on the window seat, her back to the warming sun, her face to the kitchen, where Ronan was pulling a tea kettle off the stove. As incongruous as
that
should have looked, somehow it didn't.

Ronan looked capable and completely at ease in the kitchen, at least as far as making tea was concerned. He gave her the merest glance before moving to set two steaming cups on the table. Ronan didn't offer to help her up or ask her to join him. He just sat and watched her, leaning back in his chair. Looking so damn long and dark and
big
.

Lacey sat up, feeling nervous with those smoky eyes locked on her. Didn't he realize how rude that was?

Of course, what was she expecting? Parlor manners from a werewolf? She groaned and put her head in her hands. Lacey knew what she had seen—knew it hadn't been a trick—either of his, or of her own mind. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still a very hard pill to swallow, the idea of
actual
werewolves. Her mind was trying to heave the whole thing back up.

Standing, she willed her shaky knees to lock and was able to cross the short stretch of flagged stone to collapse into the chair opposite him. She blinked at the lovely herbal aroma wafting from her cup, casting him a quizzical look.

"Mam said she thought our tea was a bit too strong for ye, so she raided Shelagh's stash of fancy foreign stuff." Ronan's nose wrinkled at the fragrant steam rising from their cups.

Lacey lips made the briefest twitch upward. She should have realized Moiré was behind the small kindness. She glanced around the room, but didn't have a chance to voice her second question, either.

"Mam's gone out front to kill some weeds. It's what she does when she's in a state. And she was in a right one about ye. Thinks yer mind can't take all this." Ronan set down his tea cup. "But it'd better."

Lacey sipped her tea, but didn't comment. She reached out for the ever-present cream pitcher. Before she could blink, Lacey found her hand trapped in Ronan's. It was like being pinned by molten steel. She didn't try to tug away, despite the shivers that danced across her spine and lower stomach.

"Why?" She said quietly, looking across the table at this man, who should only exist in myths, legends or... nightmares. "I'm sorry for your family, I'm even sorry for you, but I really don't see what any of this has to do with
me.
"

"Donna ye really?" Ronan looked down at her, his longish dark hair obscuring his eyes. It fell in raven waves that looked impossibly soft against that hard jaw.

Lacey wondered how it would feel to touch it, to bury her fingers in all that inky darkness. In that moment, a vivid dream memory seized her—

His hair, like raw silk, crushed in her hands, as she pulled his head, his mouth urgently down to her own—

Ronan's hand tightened over hers and Lacey, flushing, jerked away. He let her go.

"Doncha?" He repeated, his voice hard. He looked away from her, and she could see the throbbing of a vein in his throat. "But it's more than this," he said, to turning back to pin her with a hard gaze, waving a hand between the two of them, acknowledging the sexual tension that flowed like a palpable current between them. "It's more than the dreams.
Aine
appeared to ye! There's something in that—something I donna like at all."

"What is the big deal about your neighbor talking to me?" Lacey gripped her tea cup, more for something to do with her trembling hands than anything else. She was so confused her head ached. Ronan made a low noise, somewhere between a growl and a laugh.

"Neighbor? Oh aye, that's what I said before, in'it? Me little joke, though it's true enough. Aine is a god, Lacey—the goddess of Lough Gur—among other things."

She couldn't help it. Lacey's jaw dropped. Ronan gave a raw chuckle that vibrated the table beneath her fingertips.

"I donna know why ye look so surprised.’Twas yourself that figured out gods had to be involved. Mam didna even give ye that much."             

'
I thought only wizards or, I don’t know,
gods
could curse someone?'
Her own words rang in Lacey's head, but she still couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that Ronan was telling her she'd met a Celtic goddess. Then something clicked—

"Is that who really cursed you—Aine?" Lacey asked, her eyes wide.

“Aye, that's the bitch." Ronan's voice was flat, without heat, despite the bitterness in his words.

Was this how Alice had felt, when she fell through the Looking Glass? Lacey rubbed her head and tried to think.

"Are you sure? That
that
Aine is who I met, I mean? She seemed normal enough—"

"Aye. No one would name their daughters Aine 'round the lough," Ronan cut off her rambling. "And ye said she had the goose with her. There's no mistaking it. But it is worth askin', what form did she come in? Was she youngish ...or older?" Ronan clarified, at Lacey 's bemused look.

"Oh…young. I'd say not more than twenty? She was beautiful, she had dark hair cut kind of like mine." Lacey lifted a hand to her own stylishly jagged  rose-gold hair. "And really blue eyes, I've never seen eyes that blue..." her voice trailed off at Ronan's look.

"That's nae good," he said. "She's always a right brat when she appears like that. Always with a trick up her sleeve. What exactly did she say to ye, when she told ye to come here?"

Lacey tried to recall the goose girl's words. "She said I'd find what I 'seek', and help. Perhaps. That's her word, the
perhaps
."

Ronan didn't say anything for a long moment, staring at her as though he wanted to push through her very skin and into her soul. Lacey shivered.

When Ronan spoke again, his voice was soft.

"And what are ye seeking, Lacey Ryan?"

"
Nothing!
" Lacey snapped, getting to her feet. But she couldn’t help but think of her conversation with Moiré, and the sweet sense of family she had felt—however briefly—in this house. Tears threatened to sting her eyes. She swallowed them down.

"Donna lie to me." Ronan said, rising slowly to face her.

She practically see his body thrumming like a coiled spring, ready to pounce. But right now, she didn't give a damn. She'd had enough of tearing herself to bits for this ass, and cursed or not, Ronan was
definitely
an ass.

She'd been forced to tell him her intimate dreams, choke down all sorts of mythical crap, been scared out of her goddamn mind, not to mention nearly
murdered
. Now, he wanted her innermost secrets. Uh-
uh
.

She'd had
enough
.

"I need some air." Lacey ran around the table and sprang for the sliding glass doors. Her fingers slipped on the handle, sure he wouldn't let her go. But she made it outside without him trying to stop her.

She darted down the flagged stone steps, a smaller version of the ones up front, and under a trellis covered with yellow and white climbing roses. Their scent drenched the air and Lacey drew it in.

It was a relief to escape that damn smoky gaze that was always following her, constantly trying to strip her
bare,
in every sense of the word. It was no wonder she couldn't
breathe
with him in the same room!

Lacey felt a huge arm wrap around her from behind, and suddenly, she
really
couldn't breathe, all the air left her lungs in a whoosh as Ronan turned her to face him.

"No," she said, pushing her hand into his hard chest, fighting tears again. "Leave me alone!"

His arm only tightened around her waist. Ronan lifted a hand to trail his rough fingers over her jaw and up, brushing at the reddish-gold tendrils that feathered around her ears with a gentleness that made her blink up at him. He was a strange man, so full of rage and violence, yet he could touch her like this, make her feel like
this
—warm and liquid and full of desire. She took a long, shaky breath.

“Don’t. Ronan,
please.
”

His eyes were fathomless, totally unreadable, but Lacey could feel his desire, twin to her own. Wrapping around them both like a living thing, pulling them together, impossible to resist.

His palm slipped around the back of her neck. Lacey forced herself to push harder against the unwavering stone of his chest. If he kissed her—

She was terrified of how she would react.

"I mean it!" She said, praying he couldn't feel her trembling.

"Nae, you donna." Ronan smiled again, dark and dazzling, dipping his head. The world blurred and spun, but Ronan's mouth inexorably found hers. Her palm slid helplessly up his chest to the curves of his shoulder. Her fingers digging into thick muscles under the thin cotton of his shirt as his mouth took hers, demanding and hot, tantalizing with the flavor of jasmine tea and
him.

His warm tongue moved against hers, caressing and urgent, making her open wider, give him more. She gasped as Ronan's huge hands moved to the small of her back, then down, cupping her bottom, forcing her up, so that her thighs parted as he pressed the thick ridge of his blatant erection against her scorching center. Lacey gasped at the primal need that surged through her, every nerve focused on that pulsing point where their bodies touched so intimately.

Only last night he had held her life in these same hands that were now threatening to drive her over the edge. She no longer seemed to know where sanity ended and insanity began. His thumbs slid beneath the edge of her shirt, stroking the small of her back and the slight skin to skin contact made her heart race even faster.

"Ronan," his name was a strangled plea as his mouth left hers to trail down her throat. She cried out as one hand left her back to close over her breast, her nipple tightening to the point of sweet pain under his touch. Her head fell back, her eyes half-closed. He would take
this
, too. Lacey knew it, she'd known it even when she'd denied it would never happen. She couldn’t stop him
and she didn’t want to.

Ronan was the one who pulled back with an oath. His elbow slammed into the trellis as he spun away from her. Yellow and white rose petals rained down on them in a bright storm.

He cursed, rubbing his arm, the broad expanse of his back still facing Lacey. She took the moment to properly inhale, for what felt like the first time in hours. Her racing heart was thankful, but the desire that still ran wild and throbbing inside her veins was
not
. Like an uncontrollable fire, it was greedy for more.
She
wanted more of him.

Lacey stared at Ronan, noting the way his hair curled just slightly in the back,  the way the thick, powerful muscles of his shoulders planed down to a narrow waist, and the way he filled out those damn jeans…

She closed her eyes.
This isn't helping!

When she opened her eyes again, Lacey yelped and leaped backward instinctively. Ronan had turned around and was staring at her. From the way those grey eyes had darkened, she knew he wasn't having a pleasant time controlling his body either.

"Are ye always such a timid mouse or is it just me?"

"It's you." Lacey said. Her eyes had narrowed, anger chilling away some of the lust.
Had he actually called her a mouse?
Just because she didn't thrive on confrontation did not mean she was a damn
mouse!

Ronan made a sound of disbelief, and scowled at her. "Ye’re the one who ran away. I canna be distracted with chasing ye right now. We need to get some things straight."

Lust to anger in thirty seconds flat. Oh, yes, the man was an ass. He deserved to be cursed, really.

"Well, do
nae
let me stop you." Lacey said, sarcasm soaking every word.

She saw him bite back a smile. It startled her that he might actually have a sense of humor hidden somewhere in all that menace. Ronan shoved a hand into his hair, which caused more rose petals to drift down as his fingers displaced them. It was all she could do not to hold back a smile of her own. It was hard to see him as properly terrifying with bright rose petals in his dark hair and settling on those broad shoulders.

He turned his head away from her, staring out at the backyard. She followed his gaze, really looking for the first time since she'd ran outside. Lacey took in a sharp breath, completely distracted.
Wow
.

There were small gardens on either side of them, right up against the whitewashed walls of the house. One appeared to Lacey's untrained eye to be a herb garden, the other obviously vegetables and some flowers. The gardens weren't perfectly tidy, but slightly wild in a way that had far more appeal.

The low grey and white stone wall that wrapped around the Fitzpatrick house curved out and around the trellis from Lacey's left, then followed the gently sloping lawn as it fell in velvety green curves down and to the right, hemming a footpath that lead east into the woods. Also, starting at her left, but beyond the wall, a steep hill rose, nearly a mountain, sprinkled with heather and outcroppings spilling white rock.