Flights of Fancy

Nightshade sneered, exposing the glistening points of his fangs. “I’m no one’s servant. Taunt me again, Irish, and you’ll live to regret it.”

Obviously Tristan’s sidekick had aspirations above his station. Worth remembering.

In the muted light of the corridor, Tristan Jago’s thin, pale face appeared. “Boys, boys.” He smiled urbanely as he approached and placed a restraining hand on Nightshade’s shoulder. “Be a good fellow and let Niall in. I believe he comes bearing gifts.” He stroked his paisley silk cravat and slid an appraising glance over Niall. “You’re always welcome, my friend. Gifts or no.”

Niall suppressed a shudder. The druid boasted reptilian qualities any lizard would be proud of.

“Come and play chess with me, Niall. I still have our game set up in the drawing room.” As Nightshade disappeared into the house, Tristan glanced after him and sniffed. “I can’t get that philistine interested in chess. Says he doesn’t see the point.”

Niall followed Tristan inside. The musty smell of animals long dead tainted the air of the drawing room. Niall spared a cursory glance for the multitude of stuffed wild creatures lining the walls and resisted the temptation to press his sleeve against his nose. How could anyone, even a human like Tristan, live surrounded by death?

Nightshade sat slouched across a chair before the crackling fire, his legs slung over the arm, and pointedly ignored Niall. That suited him fine. He wanted to settle his business, no hassle, and get out.

Tristan walked to the bay window overlooking the sea and lowered himself into a wing chair beside the chessboard. Lightning flashed, banishing shadows from the room for an instant and lending his pale face a ghostly appearance.

Niall withdrew the check from his pocket and held it up so the figure of twenty-five thousand pounds was clear in the pool of light beneath the table lamp.

Bony fingers shot out and plucked the check from his grasp. “You have been a busy boy.” Tristan gave Niall a narrow look. “That’s some return on my initial thousand. What was it this time? Equity options?”

Niall shifted uneasily. He hated discussing his trades. “Commodities, mainly. A little cocoa and oil. Some gold. Dollar and euro to finish up.”

“You really do have the luck of the leprechauns.”

 “That scrap o’ paper fulfills my half of the bargain. You’ll renew the spell of protection over me brother and sister for another three months.”

 Inclining his head, Tristan indicated the seat opposite him. “Spare me half an hour, and we have a deal.”

Niall tensed in frustration at being manipulated, even if it was only into a game of chess. “Aye, then, I suppose.” He dropped into the vacant chair and scanned the chessboard to refresh his memory of where they’d left the game three months ago.

 “Your move, I think,” Tristan said.

Jaw clenched, Niall placed the white knight in a square to protect his queen. The irony of the move brought a grim smile to his lips. He would never return to Ireland and subjugate himself to the Irish fairy queen, even if it meant paying Tristan to protect his brother and sister from her for the rest of their lives.

The frantic jingling of a small bell pulled his attention from the chessboard. On the other side of the room, a gold hand clicked around the face of what looked like a cuckoo clock, and a figure twirled out of a little door on the front.

Tristan jumped up, grating his chair on the parquet floor, and marched across the room to stare at the dancing doll. “At last.”

Pushing up from his seat, Nightshade prowled over to join him. “I thought you said they were all gone,” he whispered in gruff disbelief.

Tristan shook his head. The stalker slanted Tristan an accusing look that raised the hair on Niall’s neck. They both appeared to have forgotten him. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

Dragging his eyes away from the dancing figure, Tristan gave a thin smile. “This, my dear Niall, is a magical device that tells me a Cornish pisky is about to cross the River Tamar and enter Cornwall.”

Niall frowned. “You told me they’d all disappeared years ago. That’s why I brought me sister here. I assumed the lass’d be safe from the machinations of fairies.”

“And so she is.” Tristan ran his hand across his mouth, then tapped his lips. “Find this pisky for me, Niall. Find her and bring her here.”

Who was this lone pisky woman? The grim set of the stalker’s mouth suggested that she heralded trouble. Niall didn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s disagreements. He had enough problems resolving his own.

Niall leaned back and shook his head. “I’ve no interest in bothering meself with piskies. Find her yourself.”

Tristan turned on him, pale brown eyes flaring with emotion. “That will not do, my dear Niall. Not at all. If you want me to cast another spell to shield your siblings from Ciar’s pervasive gaze, bring the pisky woman here.”

A flash of anger burned through Niall. He was sick of having his brother and half sister used as leverage. Niall unfolded from the chair and took a step toward the druid. He had three inches on Tristan and used every fraction of them to intimidate. “You have me money tucked away in your pocket. I advise you, don’t go adding conditions now, druid. Honor the bargain.” He kept a wary eye on Nightshade, ready for him to jump to his master’s defense, but the stalker stayed still, watching with guarded interest.

Tristan glared. Smudges of red appeared on the taut, pale skin of his cheeks. They stared each other down for a few seconds; then Tristan shook his head. “I only want to give her directions to find her troop, Niall. You’d best do as I ask if you want my help.”

Niall held himself still as death. He didn’t believe that explanation for a moment, but in truth, he had no choice except to comply. The spell of protection over his brother and sister must be recast—whatever the cost.

The pisky should be easy to find. She’d be drawn to him and his brother, Michael, because, apart from Nightshade, they were the only fairies in Cornwall. All he had to do was wait for her to show up at Michael’s pub and then bring her to Trevelion Manor.

Niall thumped a fist on his chest in reluctant assent, then raised a warning finger. “’Tis a bargain, then. But no more demands after this.”

Tristan flashed a triumphant grin that added to Niall’s unease.

He could almost hear the gods sniggering at his latest plight. He hoped he wasn’t going to live to regret this.

***

Rosenwyn Tremain stared through her BMW’s windshield at the towering gray struts of the road bridge spanning the River Tamar. The gateway to Cornwall. She swallowed anxiously as the line of traffic edged closer to the bridge. In a few minutes she’d be over, on Cornish soil—or, more precisely, Cornish asphalt.

A slash of lightning cut across the leaden sky, briefly relieving the dull afternoon. She shuddered, then nervously fluffed her short hair.

Never set foot in Cornwall. Her mother’s plea whispered in her memory as her car crawled forward.

Rose passed beneath the Cornish coat of arms marking the center point of the Tamar Bridge. Tension clenched her belly. She snatched a breath, held it, half expecting to be smote down by a thunderbolt.

 “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She slapped her palms against the steering wheel. “Pull yourself together, woman, and get over it.” What was the worst that could happen? She’d get a hostile reception from the business she was due to investigate. That wouldn’t be a first. No one liked being told they were insolvent.

Just over an hour later, Rose maneuvered her car along a narrow Cornish lane. She glanced at her satellite navigation system and gnawed her lip. Either the satellite was faulty, or the Elephant’s Nest Public House was in the middle of nowhere. She had a nasty suspicion it was the latter.

She crawled until the road opened out at the head of an estuary. Stopping on a small humpbacked bridge, she stared at the pretty scatter of lighted cottage windows glowing in the curve of the valley. Living in London, she found it easy to forget places like this existed.

The satellite system directed her along a narrow track beside the estuary for another half a mile. Finally, an ancient building with whitewashed walls intersected by black beams shone in her headlights. She swung her car around and parked near the front door. Her watch read five thirty, nearly opening time.

The plan had been to make a start on the financial assessment this afternoon, but the drive had taken longer than expected. As she was late, the best she could do was get the preliminaries out of the way so she could make a quick start in the morning. A small review job like this should take only two days. Then she could spend the rest of the week tracing her father.

Climbing out, she slung her purse strap over her shoulder and grabbed her briefcase. A cool breeze flowed up the estuary with the incoming tide. Salty air tingled in her lungs. So, this was Cornwall—the county of her birth.

Checking out the parking lot, she noticed a red Porsche Boxster, spotless and gleaming beneath a streetlight. The license plate read, MICK. She grimaced. Maybe the problem with the business’s finances was an owner who spent the working capital. She’d met a few of those in her years as an accountant. Mr. Michael O’Connor’s private spending would be her first target—and he wouldn’t like that. Those she investigated never did.

 As she walked toward the front door, she paused and stared at the incongruous sight of a fat pink elephant with a wicked grin perched on a nest of plastic twigs. Lucky the guy who owned this place had a sense of humor. He would probably need it when he received her report.

When she reached the entrance porch, the low drone of a powerful motorcycle engine rolled through the darkness behind her. Its headlight flickered amid the trees on the riverbank as it approached. Rose suppressed a strange compulsion to go inside before it arrived. The air vibrated with the thud of the engine as the machine slowed and, with a crunch of gravel, swung into the parking lot.

The man halted beside the Porsche, dropped a brown-booted foot to the ground, and turned his head toward her. The lamplight gleamed off the visor of his helmet. When he looked at her, the three linked stones on her necklace tingled warmly against her skin. She clasped them through her shirt to stop the weird sensation.

He twisted his hand on the throttle, and the roar of the engine snapped her out of her trance. Rose shivered as she took in his green combat pants and battered leather flight jacket. She hoped he wasn’t the owner of the pub.

Dragging her attention back to the pub, she cleared her throat, then strode through the door into the bar. The gentle lilt of traditional Irish music and the smell of wood smoke welcomed her in. After the plastic elephant out front, she was pleasantly surprised by the old-fashioned interior with its beamed ceiling, brass ornaments, and  polished oak bar.

A middle-aged woman, with a mass of fair hair secured atop her head by an orange flower, looked up from where she was restocking the shelves behind the bar.

“We’re not open till six, m’ love.” She poked her thumb behind her. “Boss is still out back working his magic.”

Rose suspected the magic had something to do with the delicious smell of food emanating from the back. So Michael O’Connor cooked. He probably couldn’t afford to pay a chef.

Rose slipped a business card from the leather case in her pocket and held it out. “Sorry to call so late. Mr. O’Connor is expecting me. I just want to introduce myself tonight and get the lay of the land. I’ll be back to start work in the morning.”

The woman took the card and read out loud. “‘Rose Tremain. Francis Marchant Partnership.’ You got yourself an impressive list of letters after your name, but it don’t tell me what you’re here for.”

Rose assumed a neutral expression. Keeping the reason for her presence secret from the staff was always difficult.  But it was necessary when investigating a business facing bankruptcy.

She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “Mr. O’Connor is expecting me. If you’d just give him my card, I’m sure he can spare me a few minutes tonight.”

The woman flicked the card between her fingers thoughtfully. “Now, which Mr. O’Connor would you be wanting?”

There were two? Rose cast her mind back to the job file. She was certain the Elephant’s Nest belonged to a sole proprietor. “My call is in connection with the pub.” Rose indicated the empty room. “Michael O’Connor’s the owner, I believe.”

The woman’s face split into a warm grin. “Our Mick. Right you are, then. Won’t be a mo.” She disappeared up the three steps leading into the back, and Rose glanced around, suddenly uneasy. She usually dealt with large organizations. She had an inkling this job was going to be very different.

The fair-haired woman scuttled back down the stairs, giggling, and Rose watched expectantly for her latest client to appear. If he were the cooperative sort, her job would be a lot easier.

Michael O’Connor ran down the three steps with the grace of a dancer, flicked back his wealth of chestnut curls, and flashed her a seductive grin.

Rose felt her jaw go slack. He was the prettiest man she’d ever seen. From his cobalt blue eyes to his perfect lips, everything about his face was finely formed and faultless. As he sauntered out from behind the bar, he hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of well-worn, skintight jeans and tilted his lips into a smile that could probably melt hearts at fifty paces.

Oh, my God. She eyed his body—she couldn’t help herself. He might be pretty, but there was nothing feminine about the muscles outlined beneath his scarlet T-shirt. She felt her mouth slip into a flirty smile and mentally slapped herself. Get a grip. But she couldn’t. She was intoxicated, losing her senses.

He halted before her and extended his hand. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Rose Tremain.” He rolled her name off his tongue like an endearment. She caught a whiff of spicy fragrance and felt a liquid tug of arousal deep in her belly.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. This was certainly a new technique for impeding her investigation. She’d faced clients who were hostile, unhelpful, and obstructive, but never before had a client dazzled her with sex appeal.

Opening her eyes, she struggled for control. She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to hurt as she shook his hand. His eyes glittered between spiky dark lashes like the warm blue waters of the Mediterranean, tempting her in for a dip. What heaven she would find if she slid into that water. Let it flow over her. Immersed herself. Gave in to the pleasure waiting to—

A crash of breaking glass behind the bar snapped her back to the room as though she’d been yanked out of sleep. She blinked. For a second her mind swam; then her head cleared. Michael O’Connor still looked pretty, but now her normal good sense kicked in. He was exactly the type of man she always avoided. She’d learned as a child that the beautiful people who hung around her mother were all gloss and no substance.

Professional distance, she repeated in her head. Realizing she still held his hand, she dropped it like a hot brick.

His eyes flickered with confusion. Tilting his head to one side, he pouted. “You’re a strong-willed lass. What’s your business with me, Rose Tremain?”

Rose straightened her back. “I assumed you were expecting me, Mr. O’Connor. You signed my firm’s letter of engagement and agreed to the appointment date.” Although the bank he was in debt to would have given him no choice in the matter.

He shrugged, pulled a squashed packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, and flipped one out. “Not sure I be remembering that.”

Okay, she had encountered this tactic before: denial. “Well, as luck would have it”—she gave him a polite smile, propped her briefcase on a table, and pulled out a copy of the letter he’d returned—“I have a copy here.”

He scowled at her, jabbed the cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a gold lighter.

“Grand,” he said in a tone suggesting her presence was anything but. “Me office is this way.”

He led her behind the bar. As he passed the display of cigarettes, he tossed his half-full squashed pack into the trash and grabbed a new one. Okay, so he was extravagant and wasteful. Rose made a mental note to add those to the list of things he could correct to save money.

They mounted the steps, and she followed him along a short corridor with a kitchen off to one side. He took her through to a back entrance hall with a small reception desk in the corner. They must have rooms to let. Perhaps she could stay here?  

“I don’t suppose you have any vacancies?”

He glanced back at her and his lips stretched into a grin. The hot, seductive glint in his eyes started to dissolve her brain again until she stamped on the feeling. How the hell did he do that when she had no interest in him?

“You after staying with me, darlin’? That can be arranged.”

Maybe staying here wasn’t such a brilliant idea. “No, forget it. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I should have booked ahead. I’ll find somewhere—”

“’Tis no inconvenience. You’ll have a room on the house.”

“I’d prefer to pay.” She refrained from telling him he needed all the revenue he could get.

He showed her through a door marked OFFICE behind the reception desk.

Rose paused on the threshold and glanced into the room expectantly. For the second time that evening, her mouth dropped open. The massive oak desk in the corner was hidden beneath piles of documents. Cardboard boxes were stacked beside it, also full of documents. But the thing that sent a chill of foreboding through her was not what she saw, but what she didn’t see.

“Where’s your computer?” She glanced behind the door and found nothing but a chair with a slat missing from its back.

Michael O’Connor laughed. She’d heard contagious laughs before, the sort that made you smile, even when you hadn’t heard the joke. Michael’s laugh had her grinning like a fool—at a problem.

“I can’t be doing with all those shenanigans. I like the old-fashioned ways.”

A sense of doom settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. She eyed the heaps of documents. The easy two-day job she’d expected took on mammoth proportions. It was vital to get the investigation out of the way quickly, or there wouldn’t be enough time to find her father. “Are your accounts recorded manually, then?” She searched for any sign of an analysis book but couldn’t see one.

 “You’ll be needing me brother, Niall, if it’s computers and accounts you’re after. He’s the one with the gift in this family.”

Oh, thank God. Relief melted through her like the effect of a good cup of coffee. “Can you ask him if he’ll spare me a few hours in the morning to go through the records? From then on I’ll be fine alone, providing one of you remains available to answer questions.”

“Your wish is my command, darlin’.” Michael beamed his bone-melting smile at her again.

This time Rose caught herself before she responded inappropriately.

“I’m always available for a pretty girl,” he said with a wink.

Rose shrank inside from embarrassment. False flattery was one of her pet peeves. She hadn’t been a girl for many years, and her mother had made certain Rose had no illusions about her looks.

With a tight grip on her briefcase, she heaved a determined breath. This job wouldn’t be a problem. She’d complete her report on the Elephant’s Nest as fast as possible, then concentrate on the real reason for her visit to Cornwall. Niall O’Connor would be her point of contact. Hopefully he’d be easier to work with than Michael. Anyone logical enough to keep the financial records must be normal and down-to-earth.

***

The following morning, Rose checked her lipstick in the dressing table mirror in the room she’d taken at the Elephant’s Nest.

When she was served breakfast at seven, there’d been no sign of Michael O’Connor, thank goodness. He would probably be like strong spirits—too much to swallow until later in the day. She turned away from her reflection with a sigh. Imagine having to wake up in bed with him. How soul destroying to be faced with a man prettier than yourself every morning.

She checked her watch and wondered what time Niall O’Connor would be available. Until he showed her where he kept the accounts, there was nothing for her to do. She cast a sideways glance at her running outfit laid out on the chair. There would have been time to do a few miles after all, but it was too late to change her plans now. She’d already showered and dressed in a navy suit.

Rose wandered across to the window and fiddled with the three stone rings hung on a chain around her neck as she stared at the river. What could she do to fill the time?

Rose.

The whispered call in her head made her squeeze her eyes closed. She couldn’t read the cards now. What would Niall O’Connor think if he came to the room looking for her and saw them?

Rose.

She glanced at her pack of Magic Knot tarot cards in their black velvet bag on the nightstand. Taking them out of her case had been a mistake. Rose rubbed her temples to try to banish the quietly whispered entreaties in her head.

We only want to help.

After all her years living a normal life, why did she still have this ridiculous urge to ask advice from the cards?

Why do you deny us?

“Talk about emotional blackmail.” Rose swung around and snatched up the cards that had been designed and given to her by her mother.

She pushed her cell phone and makeup bag aside and laid out on the dressing table the square of purple silk she kept with her cards. Then she sat on the stool, feet flat on the floor, closed her eyes, and took three deep breaths to ground herself. After gathering the seventy-eight cards in her hands, she shuffled, their familiar smooth feel a balm to her soul.

Today she wouldn’t read for herself. After years of depending on the cards to tell her how to live her life, she’d finally weaned herself off the  need for her morning reading. What she really required was more information on the two O’Connor brothers. Understanding their characters would help her deal with them.

She pictured Michael and fanned the cards in her hand. Eyes closed, she ran the tips of her fingers along the top of the pack.

When a corner dug into her skin, she opened her eyes, drew the card, and placed it faceup on the silk. The Moon. “Oh.” She bit her lip. The pale circle of the moon glowed behind the veiled face of the woman portrayed on the card. “The pale light masks a dark and secret nature,” Rose whispered, repeating the words her mother had recited many times when she’d taught her to divine with the tarot cards. Michael was not what he seemed. 

She touched the card’s image. Illusion, whispered into her mind. Hidden truths.

A shiver ran through her. That didn’t bode well for her investigation. She needed a more precise idea of how he would behave as her client. Fanning the cards, she closed her eyes and drew another. The Seven of Cups. After laying it beside the Moon, she scanned the image of the golden-haired man lying beside a stream in a grassy glade, a misty dream bubble full of riches and beautiful women above his head.

“Dreams invade reality.” Michael lived in a fantasy world and probably wasn’t able to cope with reality. Two escapism cards together were worrying. They suggested an addiction. Maybe the smoking? With the tip of her finger, she traced the man’s golden hair down the back of his cloak. Sizzling lust burst through her.

“Yowee!” Rose snatched her hand back and pressed it against her chest to calm her pounding heart. With Michael’s looks, he probably had no trouble feeding that addiction.

After thanking the cards, she slid them into the deck. Anything Michael told her about the business should be treated with extreme caution.

Perhaps his brother would prove more helpful. “Niall O’Connor,” she whispered. “Show me the heart of the man.” The name Niall tasted strange and sharp on her tongue. She didn’t know what he looked like, so she concentrated on his name and let a feel for him float into her mind. With slow, precise movements, she reshuffled the cards, fanned them, and pulled one. “Justice.” She breathed a sigh of relief. In his heart, Niall O’Connor was a just and fair man. If she stayed on the right side of him, he’d probably help her.

As Niall seemed more promising, she decided to choose two more cards for him. Shuffling, she asked to be shown how he would help her and then drew the King of Coins. “Money?” Surely if he had any capital, he’d have bailed out his brother. This card must indicate that his advice would be reliable. She touched the dark-haired man who sat on a throne of twisted branches, a huge gold coin clutched in his hand. A warm breath of suggestion whispered in her ear, the words unclear but soft and beguiling. 

Bewildered by the feeling, she took a deep breath to clear her head and moved on. Shuffling again she asked, “How will Niall work against me?” then selected a card. Ten of Swords! Her hand fisted against the silk as she stared at the young man lying facedown with ten swords thrust into his back. 

Rose closed her eyes and massaged her temples, her belly queasy with remembered humiliation. She’d pulled the same card during her personal reading on the day her mother betrayed her. After all these years, the nightmare scenario was as clear as ever.

She drew a breath and tried to stay open to the card’s meaning for this reading. It could represent the successful conclusion of her investigation. But she’d asked to be shown how Niall would work against her. Reluctantly, she touched the image of the prone man and waited for the voice in her head.

Sacrifice, the whisper hissed.

She ached to withdraw her hand, hardly able to bear the feelings. 

Betrayal, separation, pain—

She yanked her hand away with a groan and stared wide eyed into the mirror, her ragged breaths filling the silence.

The memory of finding her mother with Tom burned in her mind. She’d been so terribly naive and trusting. How could she ever have believed Tom loved her when she knew she was nothing special?

She crushed the memory down. Her life was exactly as she wanted it now, and when she located her father, maybe she’d finally have a parent who valued her achievements—and valued her.

After squaring off the pack, she pressed the cool cards against her forehead. What did the Ten of Swords mean? How would Niall stab her in the back? The prediction filled her with disquiet, but it wasn’t the card’s fault.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The characters on the Magic Knot tTarot cards had been her companions from her earliest memories. When her mother went on a binge, Rose had always turned to the cards for comfort. For a sad, lonely little girl, the characters had been her only family.

With a sigh, she slid the pack into its velvet bag and cinched the drawstring. She checked her face, then grabbed her purse and briefcase. When she stood, she straightened her body into professional mode. Let Niall O’Connor try to stab her in the back. Forewarned was forearmed. She had plenty of experience dealing with difficult people, from the uncooperative to the downright rude. “Bring it on, Mr. O’Connor. I’m ready for you.”

Chapter Two

At nine o’clock, Rose steeled herself and entered the small, untidy office Michael had shown her the previous evening. She felt deflated when there was no sign of Niall O’Connor.

Using a duster and polish borrowed from the woman cleaning the bar, she kept busy while she waited by tidying herself a workspace. At nine twenty, when she had the surface of the desk clear and gleaming with lemon-scented beeswax, Niall still hadn’t appeared.

She set her briefcase on the corner of the desk and took out the file from the bank. Then she arranged neatly around the space her cell phone, which had no signal in this back-of-beyond place, her calculator, her PalmPilot, and her pencils and pen. She leaned back in the rickety swivel chair and surveyed her handiwork.

Awareness tickled the back of her neck. She swung the squeaky chair around and checked the door.

A man stood in the open doorway, shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest in a relaxed pose at odds with his alert expression. Rose had a strange moment in which reality twisted into a different shape. He looked like Michael O’Connor, only the oozing charm had been replaced by a faint air of menace that fluttered dark thrills of anticipation through her.

Every feature of his face matched Michael’s, from the startlingly blue eyes to the perfect lips. How was it possible for two men to look the same and yet so different? This man had short hair and wore a loose brown shirt, green combat pants, and brown leather hiking boots. Of course, the man on the motorcycle had been Niall.

“You and Michael are identical twins.”

“I know,” he said flatly as he appraised her, his eyes blank, his face expressionless. “Who might you be?”

“Rose Tremain. Michael didn’t tell you?”

“Obviously not.” He raised one eyebrow slightly. “What’re you doing in the office?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Me?” A hint of a frown creased his forehead and then was gone.

She’d managed to surprise him. For some reason, it felt like a minor victory.

Rose stood, slipped a business card from her pocket, and held it out. “I’m hoping you’ll take me through the last three years’ accounts, Mr. O’Connor. Your brother told me you keep the books for the pub.”

Niall pushed away from the door frame, took a stride forward, and pulled the card from her fingers. He stared at the words for a moment, then tapped the card’s side against his palm.

“Don’t go telling me Michael’s bankrupt.” He glanced down and swore under his breath.

She was surprised he recognized the letters after her name that indicated her insolvency qualification. “I’m afraid he’s missed the last six months’ loan payments to his bank. I’m here to do a report.”

Niall placed her card on top of the filing cabinet beside the door and shook his head. “Michael’s misled you, Ms. Tremain. I don’t get involved in running the Nest. This here’s me brother’s passion.”

Rose stared at him, a knot of dread tightening her belly. “Then who does keep the books?”

Niall glanced at the dusty heaps of documents piled against the wall. “I’m guessing nobody.”

Rose gripped the back of her chair so tightly her fingers hurt. “Someone must have prepared the accounts in previous years. What about paying the taxes? He must account for tax when he pays his staff.”

Niall shrugged, a brief flick of his shoulders, as though he objected to responding. “Employees get paid cash out of the till. I’ve seen him do it.”

“Didn’t you say anything? Tell him he needs records?”

Niall stared at her, his penetrating blue gaze probing. His eyes were the same color as Michael’s, but they didn’t make her think of inviting Mediterranean seas. There were sharks swimming within these waters.

“I don’t go wasting me breath.” He turned to leave, and a little spurt of desperation surged through her.

“I can’t do this job without the records. No way am I starting from scratch with source documents.”

He paused in the doorway and gave her a challenging glance. “Leave it then. Take yourself back to London. I’ll sort matters here.”

“If I walk away, I’ll have to notify Inland Revenue.” Technically, she shouldn’t inform him of that fact, but he’d have to be stupid not to realize. And she was certain Niall O’Connor was not stupid. “Do you think he really wants a tax inspector on his doorstep?”

“What about if the arrears are paid off?”

Rose watched him rest his long fingers against the door frame. With a strange tingle in her belly, she remembered the old wives’ tale comparing the length of a certain male body part with the span between thumb and index finger. She blinked and swallowed awkwardly. What the hell was the matter with her? Exposure to Niall’s brother must have addled her brain.

“I’m sorry. Once the instruction’s been issued, we’ve got to continue with the investigation unless the bank cancels the request. Even if you pay the arrears, it’ll take a few weeks to filter through the system.”

Anyway, how did he intend to pay off the loan? Unless … She remembered the King of Coins from the tarot reading. Maybe Niall had money. She considered his scruffy clothes and thought of the old motorcycle. If he were wealthy, he did a damn good job of disguising the fact.

Niall slapped his hand against the door frame, making her start. “All righty, I’ll get you the old accounts. Radcliffs in Lostwithiel prepared them until last year. For the current year you’ll have to work with these.” He nodded toward the heaped documents.

Her heart dropped. “What about a computer? Michael mentioned you’re the computer expert.”

“No computer. Michael doesn’t like them.”

Great. Wonderful. What century were they living in? She shook her head. “He’s obviously not averse to modern technology when it comes on four wheels with a Porsche logo stuck on the front. Maybe he could sell that and pay the bank. Or is it on finance as well?”

The expression on Niall’s face didn’t change, but she got an inkling that he was uncomfortable. “Ask Michael. I’m not his keeper.”

As he walked away, she moved to the doorway and her eyes strayed from the width of his shoulders to the play of muscles in his tight backside as, with determined strides, he disappeared down the hall by the kitchen. She bit her lip. How are you going to stab me in the back, Niall O’Connor? She knew with certainty that he wasn’t being completely honest. Michael had told her Niall was the computer expert, yet he claimed there was no computer. And she’d been forced to drag every bit of information out of him. Niall was hiding something that affected her investigation. His name might not be listed as an owner of the business, but she was certain he had his long, sexy fingers in the pie. And he didn’t want her to find out.

***

Nightshade left the bright morning sun behind in the upper rooms of Trevelion Manor and descended the twisting stairway into the warren of caves and tunnels that riddled the ground below.

The previous evening, Tristan had been tight-lipped about the identity of the pisky female who’d crossed into Cornwall. Maybe a few hours working alone had loosened the man’s tongue, and he would be ready to confirm Nightshade’s suspicion that Princess Ailla Tremain had returned. Thirty years ago, he’d yearned for her and she’d rejected him. If she had returned, he would find her, forge a blood bond, and take her for his mate. 

Holding an oil lamp aloft, Nightshade walked on silent feet through the cavernous underground chamber that had once been the meeting place for his people. Remembered laughter from his childhood among the Cornish piskies rang in his head and echoed hollowly in his heart, happy memories from a time before he’d matured and they’d cast him out. It was natural, his pisky mother told him; nightstalkers were meant to be solitary creatures.

Raising the lamp, he cast a sideways glance at the paintings illuminated by the flickering circle of light. Ailla had decorated the walls with art nouvea murals in jewel-bright colors celebrating Samhain and Beltane, the two hinges of the year.

He paused and recited words he had not spoken for many moons.

“Earth be my foundation,

Air be my inspiration,

Fire be my passion,

Water cleanse my pain.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw Ailla, copper curls caught in a ribbon behind her delicate neck, paintbrush in hand. Such a talented artist—talent Tristan had forced her to use in a terrible way. Guilt scraped Nightshade’s conscience and he pushed it away. She had been as bad as the rest of the piskies, rejecting him, forcing him out, even though he’d risked Tristan’s anger protecting her little girl.

He passed down a short hallway and halted at Tristan’s workroom. As he pushed open the carved oak door, the stench of decay and death made him gag. In the muted light from six black candles, he watched Tristan push the nozzle of a hot-glue gun in the backside of a baby rabbit. The rabbit’s lifeless glass eyes stared back at him in despair.

Tristan glanced up, a thin smile of satisfaction stretching his lips. “What do you think?” He balanced the rabbit kit on its wooden stand and tipped his head to one side. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself. Not many people have a delicate enough touch to mount the smallest animals.”

Nightshade could not imagine why anyone in his right mind would mount a carcass that should be returned to the earth. Over the years, he had learned to keep that opinion to himself. He grunted in acknowledgment; even one as accursed as he could not offer praise for such blasphemy.

As he walked into the room, the sense of death was swept from his awareness by the sizzling presence of spiritual energy so pure and concentrated it flashed along his nerves like lightning. “Curse you,” he ground out. Pressing fingers to his throbbing temples, he scoured the room for the source.

Racks of animal skins filled the space: the chestnut fur of fox, the black and white stripes of badger. Nightshade swung his gaze the other way. In the farthest corner, he spied the two globes that haunted his nightmares, full of dancing golden lights that fluttered within their glass prison like trapped fireflies. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “Cover them. Now.”

Tristan’s lips peeled back in a smile. “They know you’re here. They’ll never forget your betrayal.”

“As if I need reminding.” With an arm shielding his face, he stumbled forward, ripped a fur from its rack, and covered the sparkling globes. Immediately, the pain in his body eased back to a dull ache. He rounded on Tristan. “Why not just stick me with one of your bloody dissection tools if you want to hurt me?”

“I have no intention of hurting you, silly boy. I feed on them. You feed on me. We’re all part of the circle of life.”

Nightshade stared at the packed earth beneath his feet, grimacing at the twisted analogy. There were times when he loathed Tristan so deeply he wanted to crush the life from his frail body. He looked up at the druid’s white mask of a face. “I don’t know why I ever let you use me.” How naive he’d been in his blind need for revenge on the people who’d cast him out.

“We used each other,” Tristan said matter-of-factly, and placed the rabbit on the bench behind him. A nimbus of black fire shimmered around Tristan’s hand as he walked forward and laid his deadly palm against Nightshade’s chest. “We still do. I need you. You need me.”

In the flickering light cast by the candles, Nightshade gazed at the paper-thin skin clinging to Tristan’s emaciated flesh. “If I smash those globes and release the piskies spirits, you’ll wither and die, old man.”

 “Free them, and they’ll torment you for your treachery. They may hate me for trapping them, but you betrayed your own kind.”

Grief and despair pierced his soul. Nightshade snapped his wings angrily and stepped back.

Tristan’s hands darted out and gripped clawlike into Nightshade’s biceps. “Bite me,” he coaxed. “You know you want to.” He angled his head, loosening the silk cravat to expose his neck. “Renew our bond. It’s been too long.”

Pain lanced Nightshade’s gums as he gritted his teeth to stop his canines from lengthening. The yearning for Tristan’s blood rode him every minute of every day like an alcoholic’s thirst for drink. He turned his head away as his stomach clenched with a mixture of hunger and nausea. He needed blood, but feeding on Tristan disgusted him.

Nightshade’s only hope of forging a new blood bond was the pisky woman. Faking a conciliatory smile, he raised a hand to caress the dry skin of Tristan’s cheek. “I don’t wish to feed now, master. Maybe later.” He eased back and tried to sound indifferent. “Who is this pisky female, anyway?”

Fingering his cravat, Tristan sighed, then turned back to his work. “No one you know.”

Frustration warred with Nightshade’s need for composure. Silently, he counted to ten. “I knew all who lived with the Cornish troop.”

Tristan struck a match and lit some fresh candles, then raised the baby rabbit to eye level and stroked its face. When he placed the carcass back on the bench, he gave Nightshade a sideways glance. “She was born shortly before we imprisoned the piskies.”

Born thirty years ago? Surprise lanced him. The woman must be Ailla Tremain’s child, Tristan’s daughter, Rosenwyn. Nightshade stared into the golden candle flames licking the darkness. He shuddered at the memory of the little girl’s screams, when day after day Tristan locked her in the dark and threatened to starve her unless Ailla finished the portraits.

“Rosenwyn,” he whispered, and caught a flash of vicious anticipation in Tristan’s eyes. He hoped Rosenwyn’s mother had warned her about her father. “Why would your daughter come back after thirty years?”

“Who knows?” Tristan shrugged and started sliding his tools into their case. “It’s good timing, though.” With a sly smile he added, “I have plans for her.”

Nightshade no longer wanted any part of Tristan’s plans. He needed someone to feed on to replace Tristan, and if it couldn’t be Ailla … Rosenwyn had been his friend when she was a child. Now that she was a woman, he’d make her much more.

For the first time in years, life held promise. Nightshade smiled to himself. After dusk fell, he’d go a-huntin’ and catch himself a mate.

***

Niall strode down the short corridor to the pub’s kitchen, pushed open the door, and paused on the threshold. Of all the irresponsible idiots … How could Michael have let himself get into so much debt that the bank would send a snoop to poke into the business and put Ana at risk of exposure?

Michael sat brooding at the pine table in the center of the room, cradling a mug of coffee between his hands. A woman unloading the dishwasher looked up and gave a tentative smile. There were always too many damn people about the place when he needed to speak to Michael privately. They’d have to take this little discussion outside.

“I believe you have something to tell me,” he said as he grabbed a fistful of Michael’s shirt, hauled him out of his seat, and shoved him toward the back door.

“Hey, watch the coffee, boyo,” Michael grumbled as Niall propelled him outside into the sharp, clear autumn morning. Michael fussed with his shirt and shot Niall an irritated glance. “You got out of an empty bed again, I’ll wager.”

Niall grabbed a breath of cold air to calm himself, walked to the corner of the building, and then stared at the glassy surface of the river. “Sex is not the answer to every question.”

Michael came up beside him and flashed a grin. “Naw. But get enough sex, and all those troublesome little questions float out of your mind entirely.”

When would his brother grow up? With a resigned sigh, Niall let go of his anger. He eased back against the wall. “Why did you not tell me you’d defaulted on the loan? You surely knew I’d help.”

Michael shrugged, lit his cigarette, and blew a stream of blue smoke into the crisp morning air. “’Tis always the same with you, Mr. High-and-Mighty-Everything-I-Touch-Turns-to-Bloody-Gold. You’re always after being in control.”

“How do you intend to rid us of the lass poking around in the office? ’Tis a genuine miracle if you know where your last three years’ accounts are.”

“Don’t need them, boyo. Don’t need them. I’m going to work a little magic on the lass. After a few nights in me bed, she won’t give a jot for the accounts.”

Niall stared at Michael incredulously. Was his brother really as stupid as he sounded? “Rose Tremain is not some starry-eyed tourist you can bounce on your bed and pack off home with a sparkle in her eye. Don’t even think about using your glamour on her.”

Michael stared at his feet and kicked a tuft of grass. “Truth be told, I gave the lass a taste when she first stepped foot in the place.”

“Great Danu!” Niall pushed away from the wall and gripped Michael’s arm. “Please tell me you weren’t fool enough to take it too far?”

Michael looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette, then flicked it into the water. “I gave her the twinkle of me eye and nothing more. That lass has a will of iron, to be sure.”

That wasn’t possible. Michael’s glamour was infamous in the Irish fairy court. He could enthrall all humans and even weak fairies. “If Rose Tremain wasn’t mesmerized, there has to be a reason. Either the lass knows you’re of the Good People and protected herself with a charm, or she carries fairy blood. And I’ll wager that woman is no fairy. We’d have sensed it.” Niall tapped his fist against the wall. “Only one conclusion comes to mind: Ciar is behind this visit in some way. Aye, Rose Tremain is not to be trusted.”

Michael made a derisive noise. “Is it sure you are?” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Sweet bejesus, Niall. You see the Queen of Nightmares around every corner. Rose Tremain’s nothing grander than a glorified bean counter in a boring blue suit with a boring practical haircut.”

Niall thought of the stately lass he’d seen in the office that morning, with moss green eyes and short auburn hair—practical, yes, boring, no. She had plenty of spark in her. Although when he considered the questions she’d asked, it was obvious Michael was right: she gave no indication she was anything more than an accountant.

Rose Tremain’s visit might be innocent, but he couldn’t risk the chance that she would rout out financial details about Hedgehog Cottage that would lead to his sister. “Whatever she is, I’m after getting rid of her as soon as possible. I don’t want her finding out about Ana. If Ciar ever discovered where she is—”

“Saints in heaven preserve us!” Michael tossed down another cigarette butt and stamped it into the grass. “’Tis always about Ana. You dragged me out of me beloved Ireland because of Ana.”

“Ciar could easily have taken it into her head to hurt you as well. When I rejected her, her curses could have stripped the fur off a cat.”

Michael stamped his foot like an angry child. “My queen would never hurt me. Anyway, Troy would not see me harmed.”

The bitter taste of rejection rose like bile in Niall’s throat. Troy might be their father, but from personal experience, Niall knew he would turn his back on them if it suited him.

“Ciar has probably long since forgotten you,” Michael said. “What makes you think you’re so fine a fellow she’ll bother with you now you’re gone?”

Niall didn’t think he was fine or important. But he was certain Ciar’s pride would prompt her to hunt him down and punish him for spurning her. No one turned down the fairy queen and survived unscathed. And if Niall wasn’t available, Ciar had left him in no doubt that she’d delight in hurting those he loved.

Niall straightened his cuffs to ensure that his knives were concealed. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll transfer enough money to pay off your loan. Then I’ll take a ride to Lostwithiel and fetch accounting copies from Radcliffs. That should be enough to satisfy Rose Tremain, if the lass is genuine.”

Niall grasped his brother’s shoulder. “While I’m gone, be mindful of how you answer her questions. Don’t go telling her about me computer, nor that I gave you the Porsche. If she asks about the money I’ve paid into the business, tell the lass to speak to me when I get back.”

Michael frowned. “What money might that be?”

Niall resisted the urge to shake his brother; it wasn’t Michael’s fault he’d been mollycoddled. Sometimes Niall thought his father had done him a favor when he’d abandoned him. “No matter. Tell you what: don’t answer any questions. When I get back from me jaunt, I’ll speak with her.”

After striding into the kitchen, Niall made a quick phone call to transfer money, and then fetched his helmet and jacket. He’d stop briefly at Hedgehog Cottage to check on Ana, then go to Lostwithiel. He glanced at the clock above the fridge. If he got the accounts to Rose Tremain by lunchtime, then gave her a hand in the afternoon, they should be rid of her by evening.

***

Rose froze beside her car in the parking lot, the packet of mints she’d come to fetch clutched against her chest. Her mind was buzzing with the snatches of Niall and Michael’s conversation that the breeze had carried from behind the pub. With his own words, Niall O’Connor had confirmed that he was hiding facts from her. Where did he get his money? Why was he hiding it? Maybe he was a criminal on the run. He did have an air of danger about him. She shivered with a mixture of fear and fascination.

Michael had told her the truth last night. Niall owned a computer, and he didn’t want her to check it. Part of her wanted to confront him, but direct confrontation might not be the most effective tactic, especially when she wasn’t sure of her facts. She rubbed at a spot of tension in her neck. If she checked his computer, she’d have a better idea what she was dealing with.

What if she discovered he was on the wrong side of the law? Rose glanced at the back corner of the pub. A chill trickled down her spine. She’d just have to contact the police.

After closing her car door quietly, she thumbed the remote lock on her key and returned to the office. Next, she had to find Niall’s computer. As if thinking of the man conjured him up, the roar of his motorcycle engine outside rattled the office window.

She checked her watch. The round trip to Lostwithiel and a visit to the accountant shouldn’t take him longer than an hour. There was no time to waste.

With notebook in hand, she headed through the reception hall and climbed two flights of stairs to the swing door marked, PRIVATE. She knocked, hoping Michael was busy downstairs. After thirty seconds with no response, she pushed open the door and called his name. Her heart beat a dull thud in her ears as she listened to the silence.

Rose crept up the steps to the top floor, then gazed down the hallway. Four doors stood ajar, two on either side. The first two led into a small sitting room and a bathroom, respectively. A stifling cocktail of women’s perfumes and cigarettes emanated from the third room. She wrinkled her nose and risked a peek. Black satin sheets and a gold headboard made her think of a bordello—so probably Michael’s bedroom. She closed the door and headed for the fourth room.

Panic pulsed in her throat as she eased the door open. Although she knew Niall was out, her hand trembled on the knob. This wasn’t her usual modus operandi. But then, Niall O’Connor wasn’t the usual type of client.

Drawing a deep breath, she willed herself to be calm. The room was plain and reasonably tidy. No clothes lay on the tan carpet, and the bed was neatly covered with a navy bedspread. “Bingo,” she whispered at the sight of the laptop computer on the pine desk beneath the window on the far side of the bed.

After a glance at her watch, she took a seat and twitched the mouse to bring the screen to life. A password request flashed up. Rose tapped her nails on the desk. She should have expected Niall to be security-conscious. Now she was stumped.

On impulse, she typed in Elephant’s Nest and hit enter. When that didn’t work, she tried Niall O’Connor backward, then a few name combinations without success.

Frustrated, she fluffed her hair and glanced around for inspiration. Wintry sun glittered off the top of a small wooden box on the windowsill. Pick it up, a voice said in her head. Trusting her intuition, she did so. The top was decorated with a silver shield bearing the heraldic symbols of an oak tree and two lions. Beneath the coat of arms an inscription read, O Dhia gach an cabhair.

An instinct she’d learned to trust as a child made her type the phrase. A picture opened of a strange brown-skinned child by a thatched cottage. Rose squinted at the screen. The building appeared to be scaled down to fit the child, like an elaborate playhouse. After puzzling over the image for a few seconds, she dismissed it and checked the list of programs. There was no accounting software.

“Darn,” she whispered to herself. She checked Excel and found a spreadsheet that purported to show payments Niall had made to the Elephant’s Nest. Some were rent, but a number of large amounts were described as Hedgehog Cottage expenses. Could this be a money-laundering scam? Rose looked over her shoulder at the door, bit her lip, and hit print.

Her heart pounded in time with the click of the printer, until the machine spit out three sheets of paper and fell silent. She jammed the sheets into her notebook and pressed a hand to her heart. She was fast realizing she was not cut out for sleuthing.

A quick glance at the open windows minimized at the bottom of the screen revealed an online stockbroking service. That must be how he made his money—at least, she hoped so. Although there was something scary about Niall O’Connor, he fascinated her. She’d be disappointed to discover he was a crook.

She hadn’t found much, but at least the printout gave her a starting point for her questions. After setting the computer to standby, she tucked the notebook beneath her arm, then picked up the wooden box to return it to the windowsill. Tingles ran across her skin. She blinked, trying to clear her mind as drowsiness tugged down her eyelids. A dreamy sensation fluttered through her mind, whispering of secrets and dark delights.

She must put the box down. And she would in a minute, when she could summon the strength to place it back on … A wave of heat shimmered up through her body. Oh, God. She dropped back onto the seat. What on earth did Niall keep in the box? With trembling fingers, she eased up the lid.

Rose’s breath caught. Three small linked circles of pale stone nestled in black velvet. The strange jewelry was similar to the piece her mother had given her when she was a child. She touched her chest and felt the earthy brown stones she always wore underneath her blouse. Her mother had told her never to take the stone pendant off. Obviously, nobody had given Niall the same advice.

“Niall.” Her voice quavered on his name. The urge to touch his stones filled her with sharp longing. “Get a grip, woman.” Rose tried to drag her gaze away.

She blinked and shook her head. How long had she been in the room? All she had to do was close the lid and place the box back on the windowsill. Her fingertip slipped into the box, grazed across the top stone. Everything smoothed out inside her; worries drifted away. Between her breasts, the stone pendent she’d worn against her heart all her life resonated with the elemental beat of the stones beneath her fingers. Her eyelids lowered, and she toppled down, down into a place of dark, hazy pleasure.

Chapter Three

Wind rustled the last dry leaves clinging to the oak trees around Hedgehog Cottage. Niall knelt on the damp earth before his tiny half sister and pushed her dark curls behind her ears. She shook her head and the wiry twists of hair bounced free around her nut-brown face.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’re wanting?” he asked.

She studied him with large brown eyes and shook her head. “You and me, lad, we don’t need much.”

“Aye, that’s for sure. But I like to get you things, Ana. You must indulge me fancy to spoil you on occasion.”

She clutched the sheepskin collar of his jacket, pulled him forward, and kissed his cheek. He breathed in the fragrance of newly baked bread that clung to her clothes and his sister’s earthy scent—familiar since she’d tended him as a babe. He gathered her chunky little body in his arms and closed his eyes. It was his turn to care for her now. Instead, he’d put her in danger by rebuffing Ciar and bringing her vengeance down on Ana. He should have let the fairy queen have her way with him. He’d suffered worse indignities.

Ana pulled away and patted his cheek with a small, warm hand. “Don’t you go worrying about me, darling boy. Take a leaf out of your brother’s book and go have yourself a good time.”

Niall’s guilty heart ached as she crouched, placed her palm on the damp soil, and whispered a leprechaun earth-magic blessing for him. A wrinkle of power shivered up through his knees.

She grinned. “Be off with you now, lad, and let me get back to me baking.”

He stood, reluctant to leave. “Look after yourself, Ana.”

She flapped her hand dismissively. “A worrywart you are, and no mistake. Begone.”

Niall mounted his bike, pulled on his helmet, and raised a hand in farewell when he left the clearing in front of Hedgehog Cottage. As he maneuvered along the narrow track hidden among the trees, he glanced toward the Elephant’s Nest just visible through the bare branches two hundred yards to his left.

A stunning jolt of pleasure swept through him. His heart pounded. Blood flashed. All strength left his body. The bike slewed over on the wet track, throwing him into the dirt. The roar of the engine sputtered, died. He lay on the soft leaf litter, panting with shock as he tried to clear the fuzziness from his mind.

After a few seconds, he flipped up the visor on his helmet, dragged in a shuddering breath, and stared at the gently swaying branches. What in the Furies had just happened? 

He sat up and brushed the dead leaves and mud from his clothes. His whole body hummed with awareness. A subtle thread of connection pulled at his mind. He looked around, confused. Someone was messing with him psychically. Fear pricked. Maybe one of Ciar’s people had found him or—

“Dagda!” Realization hit like a punch in the gut. Someone had touched his Magic Knot. If the person broke it, Niall’s mind, body, and spirit would be rent asunder, each to flounder alone in the shadowy in-between world. Such a punishment would appeal to Ciar. 

Niall surged to his feet, ignoring the sick swell of nausea in his gut, and sprinted through the trees toward the Elephant’s Nest. 

After racing through the front door, he mounted the stairs two at a time. The humming in his head befuddled him as though he’d drunk one tot of whiskey too many. He grabbed the handrail on the second-floor landing to steady himself before he yanked open the swinging door to the private flat and climbed the last stairs.

His bedroom door stood wide. As he approached, he flexed his fingers, ready to palm a knife. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then stepped into the open doorway.

Rose Tremain sat on the chair before his desk, his Magic Knot cradled in her palm. She swayed slightly, her eyes dazed and dreamy. His nerves sparked. Need for her struck like lightning. He managed to suck in air, to ruthlessly crush the feeling until his body calmed.

So, he had been right: Rose Tremain was more dangerous than she appeared. She’d been sent to enslave him by capturing his stones. If she thought he’d give in easily, she had another think coming.

Silently, he walked forward and closed his hand over hers. His vision blurred at the whip of sensation. Too late, he realized his mistake in touching her. Gritting his teeth, he fought the mental pull as she sucked his very essence through their joined hands into a deep, hidden part of her that whispered of ancient magic and mystery. 

Niall snatched up his Magic Knot and stumbled back. His breath came in short gasps as he stared at her in shock. Rose was the Cornish pisky Tristan wanted. How had she stopped them from sensing the truth about her? That deception alone proved she was up to no good.

Slowly, her green eyes focused on him. Confusion set tiny creases between her delicate brows; then surprise chased them away. She slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Aye, be afraid, little thief,” he whispered. “You’ll pay dearly for your deception before I’m done with you.”

 The Magic Knot will be released on Jan 27th. To view the Amazon sale page go here: www.tinyurl.com/magicknot