But he’d not been about to let her off so lightly. He liked the thought of her stirred to painful awareness of him. Hurting with it, just like he was, constantly, painfully aware of her. They would suffer together. When he finally gave her that first orgasm, it would be followed by a dozen more. By his cock in her, deep to the hilt. Branding her his own.
His human body, it seemed, had pulled a MacKeltar trick; it had looked at her and growled:
mine.
And there was no going back. For either of them. If she hadn’t figured that out yet, she would soon.
“To get to me. He’s a twisted bastard. He likes to take from me. Especially mortal women. I had to play a deep game to keep him from finding out about Morganna. But he knows about you now, and he’s not going to stop coming.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then opened it, “Would it get to you, if he took me?”
He glanced at her, but she wouldn’t look his way. There’d been a strained note in her voice. For a novel change, her gaze was fixed firmly on the road ahead. The question was important to her. And to him. “Yes, Gabrielle,” he said with quiet intensity. “It would.”
“Oh.” She was silent a long moment. Then, “Are you sure we’ll really be safe at this place we’re going to?”
He smiled faintly. She was as bad as he was when it came to skirting issues and changing subjects. No matter. There was time. He would see to it that there was more than enough time.
“We already are; we’ve passed the wards. The queen is alerted the moment a Tuatha Dé crosses her wards and comes within a thousand leagues of Keltar land, and those wards identify the trespasser. This is the one place Darroc can’t come without revealing himself to Aoibheal. If he did, the game would be over, and he’s not about to let that happen. Besides, he has little familiarity with the human realm, and if I know Darroc, he’ll focus on what must have brought him to Cincinnati. He’ll keep trying to find Circenn.”
“Will the queen know that
you’ve
crossed her wards?”
“The wards were designed for a Tuatha Dé, which I am no longer, so I don’t think so.”
“You didn’t think Darroc would find us so quickly.”
It wasn’t a question, but he answered it anyway. “I underestimated him; I didn’t think he’d dare bring forth more Hunters. There’s no way he could have found us so quickly with only the four Hunters you saw with him in Cincinnati. But he summoned more.”
“How many more?” she said, glancing at him, eyes widening with alarm.
“You don’t want to know.” When he’d turned her in his arms to face him, he’d been looking over her shoulder. A full score of Hunters had materialized right behind her, just waiting for the moment he would turn to Darroc and stop touching her. Crammed wing to dark wing, looming over her. He’d never seen so many Hunters together in one place, outside of their Unseelie prison. Even he’d found that dark legion mildly disconcerting.
More than disconcerting. The mere thought that they might get their claws on Gabrielle had done something to the human heart inside his chest, had made it feel as if it were . . . seizing up, being squeezed in a giant, crushing fist.
“Were they behind me?” she asked warily.
She didn’t miss a thing. He nodded.
“Uh . . . more than . . . er, a dozen?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right,” she said hastily. “I don’t want to know.” Another lengthy pause. “You know . . . um, what Darroc said about you and him playing with mortals . . .”
A muscle leapt in his jaw. “What about it, Gabrielle?”
“Was it, er . . . true?”
“No,” Adam said. “Darroc lies. He was just trying to fill your head with nonsense. Cause dissension between us, do the old divide-and-conquer thing.”
“Really?” She looked at him, green-gold eyes wide, searching.
“No,” Adam said. “Really.” He met her gaze levelly, willing her to believe him, hating that the one time she was looking as though she might, he was lying. But who and what he’d once been was not who and what he was now, and he’d not be tried and convicted for ancient crimes.
She nodded slowly, then, “So,” she changed the subject briskly, “are you sure that these MacKeltars we’re going to see will believe me? Even though they won’t be able to see you?”
“Ah,
ka-lyrra,
I’m not sure there’s anything the MacKeltar wouldn’t believe. They’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“We’ve lost him, Darroc,” said Bastion.
Darroc stared at the Hunter in icy silence. Watching Adam with his little human had reminded him of the times long ago when they’d ridden the Wild Hunt together, when they’d hunted like brother-gods, invincible and free, ruled by nothing and no one. They’d been inseparable, known each other’s thoughts as well as their own. Mortals had been nothing more to them than lowly beasts, good for a chase, amusing to play with, to set upon each other and watch them enact their silly tragedies.
But Adam had changed. He’d been corrupted by contact with humans. And he’d turned on his own kind over one of them. On
him,
Darroc, who’d once favored Adam as he’d favored no other.
Adam had become protective of humans, spending most of his time among the short-lived creatures. It was inconceivable to Darroc that any sentient entity could prefer humans to the Tuatha Dé.
He’d waited for Adam to return to the fold, to indulge and get over his perverse fascination. But millennia had passed and Darroc had come to see Adam for the abomination he was.
Incensed to discover Adam dallying passionately with the human, he’d let himself and his Hunters be seen. He’d
wanted
his scarred face to be the last thing Adam saw as he lay dying, as he watched Darroc break his woman.
But Adam hadn’t responded to his taunts in his usual way. No, he’d reacted as if Darroc didn’t even matter, as if his taunts couldn’t touch him, as if only the safety of his pathetic little mortal was of any concern.
For the second time in as many days, Adam had used his body to shield his human and sifted out before Darroc could stop him.
And now the
sin siriche du
(who was no longer worthy of such a noble appellation) was out there somewhere with full knowledge that Darroc had loosed the Hunters. And Darroc knew Adam knew exactly what that meant: that he was planning to challenge the queen.
Which meant he had to find Adam again and fast. Before the clever
D’Jai
prince devised some way to get Aoibheal’s attention, even powerless as he was. Darroc could no longer afford the luxury of drawing out his death. When next he saw Adam Black, his demise would have to be swift. He couldn’t let his thirst for revenge jeopardize his ultimate goal.
Still . . . he might keep the woman for a time. She liked Fae males? He’d show her what Fae males could do to human women. He’d show her what Adam really was somewhere deep inside though he tried to deny it. Tuatha Dé: a god. And she
would
worship before she died.
“Don’t look at me like that, Darroc,” the Hunter growled, jarring him from his thoughts. “We were ready. We could have slain them in a human heartbeat.
You
insisted on separating them and taking them alive. Is this about regaining our freedom, or your vengeance?”
“Both,” said Darroc flatly. “And it’s none of your concern. Tell me, where did you last have their scent?”
“At a human airport.”
“Their destination?”
The Hunter shifted leathery wings. “There were too many humans about. Their scent had been scattered by the scent of too many others by the time we arrived. We were unable to determine it.”
Darroc cursed viciously.
“Let me call forth more Hunters. We’ll find them again,” said Bastion.
“The Unseelie King would note their absence,” said Darroc. “He’s no fool.”
“But he is currently seeking his amusement elsewhere. None have seen him for quite some time,” replied Bastion.
Darroc pondered the bit of information.
If only the Unseelie King could be relied upon, could be sought for counsel or alliance, but the King of Darkness was like no other of their race, so ancient that Aoibheal, at just under sixty thousand, may as well have just drawn her first breath. It was rumored that the Unseelie King counted his existence by many
hundreds
of thousands of years; some whispered it to be even more. And was, more often than not, quite mad. Few ever so much as glimpsed him, and none knew his name or true form. He’d created his own realm within the shadow-realm of the Unseelie prison, a fortress that was said to house entire galaxies; a dark, vast dominion sown with traps for the unwary, into which none that he knew of had ever entered uninvited and returned.
For that matter, none had ever entered
invited
and returned, save the Seelie queen on two occasions. Even she gave the King of Darkness wide berth.
Still . . . if he was occupied elsewhere, Darroc could certainly use more Hunters. “How long since last the king was seen?”
“Two score and ten,” said Bastion.
A tidy bit of time, a risk worth taking. “Another score of you, no more,” Darroc conceded. “Find Adam’s son. I believe he will try to use him to get word to the queen. We must prevent that from happening. Saturate both Cincinnati and the Highlands. When you locate his half-blood bastard, summon me. And if you happen to find Adam, do not approach. I want to be there when he dies.”
Bastion nodded, sharp teeth gleaming.
17
Drustan MacKeltar tossed back a swallow of scotch and glanced around the table with a satisfied smile.
In the past year the MacKeltars had pretty much seen it all.
And, God willing, we’ve seen the last of it,
he thought fervently.
After so many calamitous events, life was peaceful and sweet, all he’d ever dreamed and more. He wanted naught more than to immerse himself in simple pleasures for the rest of it. Like a meal shared with those he loved, before a crackling peat fire laid with sheaves of fragrant heather.
His gaze skimmed his dining companions: There was Gwen, his beloved wife, brilliant physicist, and radiant mother of their precious two-month-old twins, prattling happily away to Chloe about—of all things—the schools their children might one day attend.
And there was Chloe, his brother’s cherished wife, an antiquities expert and bookish scholar. They’d just learned last week that she would soon be adding to the MacKeltar clan, and she’d been glowing ever since, as had her husband, Dageus.
Ah, and there was Dageus, his twin, younger by three minutes, and best friend.
It had been months since that night in The Belthew Building, when Dageus had battled and defeated the modern-day sect of the Draghar, who’d been determined to resurrect their ancient namesake. Dageus’s eyes were once again sunny and clear, and he was full of easy laughter. Drustan couldn’t recall ever seeing him happier.
Initially, Dageus had spoken of building his own castle on the northern third of the MacKeltar estate, but Drustan had swiftly put an end to such foolish talk.
The castle Dageus had overseen construction of for Drustan and Gwen—the fabulous home that had been a labor of his love for them, and bespoke it in every beautifully crafted detail—contained over a hundred and twenty rooms. It had been designed to house an entire clan, and Drustan intended for it to do just that.
He’d not lost his brother twice before to bid him any kind of fare-thee-well now. Clans weren’t like modern-day families. Highland clans stayed together, worked together, played together, and raised their children together. Conquered their own little corner of the world and stuffed it to overflowing with their unique, proud heritage.
Hence Dageus and Chloe had taken up residence in the castle, settling happily into a suite in the west wing, opposite Drustan and Gwen in the east.
And each eve without fail, at seven sharp, they met to dine (their wives insisted they dress for it, and he would have donned any blethering thing she’d asked to see his wee Gwen in such dresses and sexy shoes as twenty-first-century women wore), and the stone walls of the castle were filled with laughter, fine conversation, and the warmth of love.
Cocking his head, Drustan glanced up at the portrait of his father, Silvan, and his next-mother, Nell, hanging above the fireplace. He fancied Silvan’s painted brown eyes twinkled merrily and Nell’s smile curved more sweetly. Aye, life was rich. After all their trials and tribulations, it had settled into a peaceful cadence, with no life-or-death complications, no oath-breaking, no time-traveling, no curses, no evil Druids or Gypsies or crazed seers or Tuatha Dé.
He was looking forward to a very long stretch of unbroken peace and quiet. The rest of his life would serve well.
He pushed aside his plate and was about to suggest they adjourn to the library, when their butler, Farley, came blustering in, white hair bristling, his tall, hunched frame now ramrod straight. Something had clearly ruffled him.
“Milord,” Farley said with a disgruntled
humph
.
“Mister MacKeltar,” Drustan corrected for the umpteenth time, with a this-is-really-wearing-thin-but-I’m-determined-to-be-patient smile. No matter how many times he told Farley that he was not a laird, that he was simply Mr. MacKeltar, that it was Christopher (his modern-day descendant who lived up the road in the oldest castle on the land) who was actually laird, Farley refused to hear it. The eighty-something-year-old butler, who insisted he was sixty-two and who had obviously never before buttled in his life until the day he’d arrived on their doorstep, was determined to be butler to a lord. Period. And he wasn’t about to let Drustan interfere with that aspiration.
If not for Gwen, Drustan might have been more adamant about correcting him, but Gwen doted on Ian Llewelyn McFarley, and had since the day he’d arrived, followed by so many other McFarleys to be employed in and around the castle that Drustan was no longer certain some days if it was Castle Keltar he lived in or Castle Farley.
If might made right, he thought wryly, it was Castle Farley by sheer numbers alone. At last count he employed fourteen of his butler’s children and spouses, seventeen grandchildren, and there were twelve wee greats on the premises, from toddler to teen. The McFarleys were a prolific bunch, reproducing like the clans of yore. Drustan looked forward to trying to catch up. He would certainly enjoy the trying, he thought, gaze raking possessively over his wee, sensual wife.
“Aye, milord MacKeltar.”
Drustan rolled his eyes. Gwen snorted into her napkin.
“As I was trying to tell you, milord, ’tis a visitor you’re having and, though mayhap ’tis not my place to say so, she’s a most”—
sniff
—“improper lass. Not at all like young Miss Chloe here”—huge, infatuated smile—“or our delightful Lady Gwen. Verily she puts me more in mind of that one”—he nodded toward Dageus—“when first he arrived. There’s something not right about her, not right at all.”
Drustan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Peace and quiet was on the agenda. Naught more. He glanced questioningly at his wife.
Gwen shrugged and shook her head. “I haven’t invited anyone, Drustan. Did you, Chloe?”
“No,” Chloe replied. “What’s not right about her, Farley?” she asked curiously.
An annoyed
humph
. A few
ahems,
then a thoroughly miffed, “She’s a fine enough lass, that is, when one is able to actually look at her, but”—he broke off with a deeply aggrieved sigh and cleared his throat several times before continuing—” ’twould appear she’s having, er . . . solidity problems.”
“What?” Gwen said, frowning. “ ‘Solidity problems’? What on earth does that mean, Farley?”
Drustan inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. He didn’t like the sound of this. Solidity problems did not bode well for the serenity of the occupants of Castle Keltar.
“ ’tis precisely as I said. Solidity problems,” Farley reiterated, obviously loath to commit further to describing their unexpected guest.
“Oh, my,” Gwen said faintly. “You mean, she’s solid and then she’s not? As in, she’s becomes invisible?”
“You’d not be hearing such a thing from me,” Farley said stiffly. “ ’twould make one sound quite addled, such an assertion.”
“And she’s asking for
me
?” Drustan said irritably. How could that be? The only people he knew in the twenty-first century were those he’d met through Gwen, or since settling in on the MacKeltar estate. He’d certainly not made the acquaintance of anyone with solidity problems. Verily, he would have avoided such a person like the grimmest plague. He’d had enough of spells and enchantments to last a dozen lifetimes.
“Nay, she’s asking for that one.” Farley nodded at Dageus.
“Me?” Dageus looked startled. Glancing at Chloe, he shrugged. “I have no idea, lass.”
Exhaling gustily, Drustan stood. So much for peace and quiet and simple pleasures. How foolish to think a Keltar Druid’s life might ever be normal. In any blethering century. “ ’twould seem we’d best find out,” he said. “Somehow I doona think we’ll be so fortunate that this lass with ‘solidity problems’ might go non-solid in a permanent fashion and leave us all in peace.”
When he made for the great hall, Dageus, Gwen, and Chloe were close on his heels.
Gabby stood in the entrance of the castle, shaking her head, stunned.
Adam hadn’t bothered to tell her that the MacKeltars lived in a magnificent, sprawling castle with round turrets and square towers, enclosed by a mighty stone wall, and replete with medieval portcullis and barbican, the great hall of which alone could have swallowed her entire eleven-room Victorian.
Nor had he given her any warning that she might have wanted to run a brush through her hair or powder her nose and try to make herself presentable to . . . to aristocrats or . . . peerage or whatever manner of lordly people occupied castles.
Nope, just another abrupt dropping of Gabby O’Callaghan, sleep-deprived and unkempt, into yet another unfathomable situation, wholly unprepared.
She tilted back her head, examining her surroundings. An intricately carved balustrade encircled the hall on the second floor, and an elegant double staircase swept down from opposing sides, met in the middle, and descended in one wide train of marble stairs. It was a staircase out of a fairy tale, the kind a princess might sweep down, dressed in an elegant gown, on her way to a ball.
Brilliant tapestries adorned the walls, plush rugs were scattered about, and colorful stained glass embellished the many tall windows. The furnishings in the hall were massive carved pieces, detailed with complex Celtic knotwork. There were two fireplaces, both large enough for grown men to stand in, faced by high-backed chairs tufted with rich brocades, and arranged beside gleaming accent tables.
Corridors shot off in all directions, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine how many rooms were in the place. A hundred? Two hundred? Complete with secret passageways and a dungeon? she wondered fancifully.
It wasn’t until they’d begun climbing the long winding private drive to the estate that Adam had finally divulged the fascinating, though sketchy, bit of information that the MacKeltars were descended from an ancient line of Druids that had served the Tuatha Dé Danaan for aeons—and were the sole upholders of Man’s side of The Compact between human and Fae.
“The Compact?”
she’d echoed, stunned.
The O’Callaghan
Books
held scant information about the legendary treaty. She was beginning to realize that if she survived all of this, she was going to be able to add a wealth of information to the volumes for future generations—more and more
accurate
information—than anything they held to date.
Perhaps she’d even get to see the sacred . . . er, thing, whatever The Compact was—she didn’t even know what it was supposed to look like. And how much, she wondered, ablaze with curiosity, might the MacKeltars be able to tell her about the Fae? As upholders of the treaty, they should know a great deal. She couldn’t wait to pick their brains.
She snorted softly, not missing the irony of her thoughts. She’d spent her entire life determined to hide from all things Fae, refusing to open the
Books,
turning studiously away, and suddenly she was eager to know as much as possible about them.
The O’Callaghan
Books
had been wrong about many things.
And she needed to know just how many things, and just how wrong.
Only then might she be able to make some sense of the dark, seductive Fae prince who had blasted into her life and turned it so completely upside down.
She glanced up at him. He was standing silently, his gaze focused ahead, his big body still and tense. Was he uncertain of their welcome? It was difficult for her to fathom Adam being uncertain of anything.
She was tipping her head back to inquire, when two men entered the great hall and the question flew right out of her head.
They were simply two of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen. Twins, though different. They were both tall and powerfully built. One was taller by a few inches, with dark hair that swept just past his shoulders and eyes like shards of silver and ice, while the other had long black hair falling in a single braid to his waist, and eyes as gold as Adam’s torque. They were elegantly dressed in tailored clothing of dark hues, with magnificent bodies that dripped raw sex appeal.
Oh, my,
she marveled,
they don’t make men like these in the States.
Were these typical Scotsmen? If so, she was going to have to get Elizabeth over here somehow. A connoisseur of romance novels, Elizabeth’s favorites were the Scottish ones, and these two men looked as if they’d just stepped straight off one of those covers.
“Try not to gape,
ka-lyrra
. They’re only human. Mortal. Puny. And married. Both of them. Happily.”
So much for fixing Elizabeth up,
Gabby rued, glancing up at Adam. His hand was resting possessively in the small of her back, and he was looking down at her with an unmistakably irritated expression that looked a bit like . . . jealousy? The
sin siriche du
—jealous of two human men? Over her? The notion seemed so unlikely to her as to be impossible; nonetheless, it made tiny breaths clot up in her throat.
“I’m not gaping,” she managed to say, and really she wasn’t, because as soon as she’d looked back at Adam, she’d realized that though the two men might be gorgeous for humans, they were nothing compared to him.
Take those two men, merge them together, sprinkle them with Fae dust, brush them with ten times the simmering sensuality and elemental danger, and that’s Adam Black,
she thought.
“Dageus, are you seeing . . .” the taller of the two began, with a disgruntled note in a voice deep and laced with a thick, soft burr.
“Rather like the faint, misty outline of a lass, Drustan?” his golden-eyed twin finished for him, with the same sexy accent.
“Aye,” the one called Drustan said, scowling.
“Aye,” Dageus agreed.
“Oh!” Gabby exclaimed. She’d forgotten about Adam’s hand at the small of her back (deadly man, he’d gotten her so used to his constant touching that she was now more likely to notice its absence than its presence!). Then again, how could the MacKeltars see her at all? she wondered, frowning. Because they were Druids? Heavens, she had so many questions!
Slipping away from Adam’s touch, she hastily apologized to the two tall, dark men. “I’m so sorry. I keep forgetting that I disappear when he’s touching me, because nothing disappears for me. I guess we probably gave your butler a bit of a fright.” At their blank looks, she forged on. “I’m Gabrielle O’Callaghan,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand, “and I know you don’t know me, and I know this all probably seems quite strange, but I can explain. Could we maybe sit down somewhere? It feels like we’ve been traveling forever.”