Yuletide Enchantment (8 page)

“I saw the white hart this morning,” St. Clair announced at supper that evening.

“The beast is still alive, is it?” Ewan grumbled.

“Strange, to be sure,” the earl murmured. “The animal stood his ground with me, again. I may have imagined it, but the beastie appeared to be challenging me.”

“What’s this about a white hart?” her father asked as he rested his utensils against his plate.

“Magnificent stag,” Ewan declared. “Would look right at home with its head mounted on a plaque above our hearth.”

Isobel thought of Daegan and closed her eyes. He didn’t deserve to be hunted, to be killed. The thought of her brothers running after him, shooting at him, made her feel violent.

“Let us gather a hunting party for the morning,” her father announced. “Fifty pounds to the man who fells this stag and brings me his head. He shall have the place of honor over the hearth.”

Ewan slid his gaze to her. “What do you think of that, Issy? A bounty on your hart?”

She glared at her brother before turning her gaze to her father. “I would ask that you spare this animal, Papa. He has done nothing to harm anyone here. He does not cause mischief, or eat from the gardens. He is a beautiful creature, meant to be left alone, not hunted.”

“I, for one, will not take part in such a hunt,” St. Clair announced. “The white hart is a mystical creature. A sign that the Otherworld is near.”

“Afraid of a few fae?” Ewan snickered. “I’m surprised, St. Clair; you seem to be such a steady bloke.”

The earl cleared his throat. “I have seen one myself.”

“What?”
the entire table asked in shock.

Good lord, was St. Clair touched in the head?

“I was five, and I saw him crawl in the library window—”

“Did he have black hair and violet eyes?” Isobel asked, interrupting him.

The earl looked at her strangely. “No, he was fair, his skin as pale as a ghost’s, and his eyes were black. He—he took my mother, and she was never seen again.”

“What makes you think it was a Sidhe and not a man,” Ewan challenged.

“No man carries this.” St. Clair reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a dirk, very similar in design to the one she had seen on the altar last night. “ ’Tis called an athame. It is a ritual knife used in their sacred marriage ritual. I’ve done extensive research into Druid religion,” he said, passing the dirk to Stuart, who sat on his right. “The ancient Celtic priests carried similar objects and similarly worshipped the moon. The Sidhe, the Druids said, gave them this religion.”

Her family looked at the earl as if he were mad. But Isobel knew he was sane, and more than that, correct. The Sidhe were real. So was Annwyn.

“So you see, I will not invoke the wrath of the Sidhe. I will not hunt the hart. Leave it be,” the earl muttered as he began to eat his supper.

“And you expect us to just swallow that rubbish,” Ewan scoffed.

“What a delightful dinner,” Fiona said, with a glare at Ewan. “We are so happy to have you for Christmas, my lord. I do hope you are enjoying your stay here with us at MacDonald Hall.”

Ewan grumbled and Isobel glanced away. The earl nodded and picked up his fork.

“Shall you read
A Christmas Carol
again tonight?” Fiona asked Isobel’s father in what could only be a desperate attempt to get the dinner conversation back on track.

“Of course, of course,” her father chuckled. “But first, I’d like to hear more about this hart. Crafty wee beastie, is he?”

“He is indeed, Father. But do not worry. I will get him for you.”

Isobel glared at Alistair. So did St. Clair, she noticed.

“I would have a care, MacDonald, before you go taunting the beast,” the earl warned. “Leave the hart alone.”

“And why is that?” Ewan asked.

The earl sat back in his chair, his long, tapered fingers brushing against the blade of the athame that rested on the table. “Because you may very well find one of yours carried off in the night, never to be seen again.”

The moonlight glittered on the snow-covered ground. From her window seat, Isobel sat and watched the snow gently falling. In her palm was the clan pin. The silver tingled in her hand, warming her palm. She felt the call of the enchantment, the whispering voice of Daegan.
Come to me, muirnín,
but she ignored it. Tried to pretend she didn’t hear him in her thoughts, feel him in her heart.

He was an animal. A Sidhe. Had it all been a lie? The dream? The night in Annwyn when he had loved her so well? Could he even love a mortal?

She didn’t know what to think. How to feel. How to go on. She only knew that by returning to Annwyn she would only confuse matters.

Her heart was already engaged; it had been since she was six, when she first saw her hart drinking from the loch. He had been a presence in her life since then. She could not deny it. But what he was . . .

With a sigh, she put the pin down on the windowsill as she rested her head against the window. Annwyn was before her, calling to her. She could see it through the frosted panes and the snow. Her eyelids flickered as her gaze dropped to the pin. Of their own volition, her fingers reached for it, her breathing growing harsh, her vision growing hazy with sleep.

No. She must not. She could not return there. Could not allow herself to be lost in a world she didn’t know. A world she feared with a man who was not a man at all.

With one last look she rose from the seat and made her way to the lounge by the hearth. She would wrap gifts and forget about Daegan. She would continue on as though she had never met him, never tasted his kiss or experienced his touch.

Her heart lurched, her body softening to the possessive sound of his voice. It was all she had ever wanted, to be loved and desired. Yet her mind warred with her body, with her need for Daegan’s touch. She was tired of being a pawn of men. First her father, then St. Clair. Now, Daegan with his commands.

If you want me so much,
she challenged, casting a glance at the window,
then you will have to come and take me.

Opening the door of Isobel’s chamber, Daegan found her asleep on the chaise before the fire. Surrounding her were presents wrapped in red and green and tied up with big, shining gold bows. It was Christmas for the mortals, and Yule for his kind. It was the birth of Christ the humans celebrated, and the birth of the sun god and longer days for his people. The sacred days for both celebrated birth, life, and joy. There was no difference in that, no great division between their kind. The humans worshipped the sun and prayed to their god. The Sidhe worshipped the moon and prayed to the nature gods. They were not that different. Yet how did he convince Isobel of that?

As he came closer to her, he realized that she was dressed for bed, her filmy nightgown, supposedly virginal, excited him. From somewhere deep inside, he felt the stirring of his demons. Passion, hot and scorching, rushed through his veins as his hungry gaze took in the picture of Isobel, her pale limbs outlined against the bloodred velvet while shadows cast by the fire danced across her creamy skin, rendering the silk dressing gown almost translucent.

Swallowing hard, Daegan approached the chaise, his eyes roving every inch of her, admiring her lush thighs, the roundness of her hip, the full, heavy breasts that strained against the ties of her gown.

He wanted her.

It wasn’t merely a need to make love to her or to kiss her senseless. He desired her with a possessive passion that frightened him. There was so much at stake, not only for Isobel, but for himself as well. He could not leave Annwyn. He would cease to exist outside his world. But living without Isobel was not a life, but merely an existence.

She had resisted the lure of the enchantment spell tonight. He had waited and waited, pacing the grove, knowing why she resisted the call, feeling her fears, her doubts. But it angered him. He had strengthened the spell, and still she did not come to him. And then he heard her challenge. He had not thought of anything after that. The animal in him took the challenge. He was ready to mark and claim—
to mate
. The Sidhe in him was willing to sacrifice everything to prove himself worthy of her.

She had flung a challenge in the wind he could not resist or ignore.

Resting his thighs against the curved arm of the chaise, he looked down at the angelic form of the woman he would have as his wife. She had angered him as no other had ever done, rendering him nearly savage with jealousy when he thought of her with St. Clair or any other male. And yet, when he looked at her, her glorious curls in disarray, her copper lashes fanned lightly against her cheek, he could think of nothing other than waking her slowly with passion.

He could not stay angry with her for leaving him alone. It was mortal fear that ruled her, not her heart. Seeing her sprawled out provocatively, his anger completely dissipated, leaving him thinking of all the different things he wanted to do to her.

Unable to resist temptation, he leaned over the arm of the chaise and stroked the hair from her face. When his fingers trailed down her cheek, she instinctively curled into his hand. He smiled as she mumbled something unintelligible. His fingers continued to trace a path to her neck, where they shakily reached for the ties of her gown. Parting the lace ruffle to expose the pale globes of her breasts, his breath caught as he realized she was completely naked beneath.

A log crackled and sparked in the hearth, sending a flicker of light along her thighs that illuminated the curls that lay nestled between her legs. He itched to part and taste her. To awaken her with his mouth.

Forcing himself to take things slower, Daegan concentrated on removing the gown from beneath her. Once she was naked, he pulled his shirt over his head, his appreciative gaze traveling up and over her as the linen slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor. His eyes once more moved up the length of her legs. He remembered the way they had felt against his waist—soft, welcoming, infinitely feminine. He imagined his hands pressing into their softness while he plunged into her, her husky moan welcoming him, telling him she needed him as much as he needed her.

Sighing heavily, she turned onto her back, her breasts bouncing with the movement. Trailing his hands up the length of her waist, he stopped to cup them. They were full and heavy, the nipples already peeking out from between his fingers. Unable to resist, he pressed her breasts together, kissing each firm bud

Isobel moaned sleepily, arching her back and thrusting her breasts farther into his mouth. He groaned when he felt her hands steal behind his head, her fingers combing into his hair.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

“You should have. You’re mine, and I always come for what is mine. How could you think I’d be able to stay away?” he asked against her mouth before sliding his tongue inside. She moaned, angling her hips invitingly. His hand stole down her belly where he kneaded a path to her curls. It was arousing to see his large hand stroke her possessively. She was his, and he wanted her to want him as fiercely as he wanted her.

“I have proven I want you, Isobel. Now I demand the same.”

Her fingers gripped his hand, and her legs clamped tightly together when his finger slid into her. She whimpered as he parted her and slid his finger along the length of her sex, which was damp and ready for him.

“Can you not feel how much I want you?” she asked as she took his wrist in her hand and forced his finger deeper inside her. She moaned, spreading her thighs wider for him.

He could feel his demons nipping at his heels, driving him to satisfy his needs. He wanted to brand her with his passion. To leave his mark so that she would know that she belonged to him, and only him.

“So sweet. Yes. You want me. I feel it,” he murmured, his finger slipping inside as his breath caressed her wet flesh. She began to pant and twist beneath his ministrations. He loved how she raked her hands through his hair.

He pulled her up to straddle his hips, his fingers sinking into her thighs as he slowly lowered her onto him. Her body arched, her long curls grazed the velvet cushion as her breasts bounced evoca tively with every one of his thrusts. He loved watching her body move in time with his. Loved how her hair glistened in the firelight, the ends rubbing against the silk in time to his strokes in a rhythm that was both slow and seductive.

His finger stole into her curls, and she whimpered in appreciation. She sank farther onto him, totally impaling herself on his length. He heard her suck in her breath, and he nipped at her ear as his finger continued to tease her sensitive flesh. She tightened, then jerked in his arms, her bottom provocatively grazing his thighs. He smiled into her hair as the soft cries of her release splintered the air, and he watched as her face softened into exquisite bliss.