The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 4

"Una was the Faerie Queen Fairest woman ever seen Wed centuries to her King Love meant more to her than his ring."

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound, a low hill covered with gra.s.s. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hill, like a crown upon it, and a hawthorn tree grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair p.r.i.c.kled on the back of his neck for he had learned at his mother's knee to be cautious in the presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place they favoured.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a woman atop the hill. She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They were all lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move silently as he didn't want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to confront him. She smiled, her hand falling to her lap as she sang directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her loveliness.

"But Finvarra had an appet.i.te, For mortal women, both dark and light.

He vowed he'd have the pirate queen, Held captive by the spriggan's greed.

One glimpse of the fair Rosamunde Had left him filled with l.u.s.t and love.

And so his wife did come to dread Her spouse taking Rosamunde to his bed."

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was tall and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves and swept to her ankles; it was as blue as her eyes, rich with golden embroidery and gems encrusting the hem and cuffs. It seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of silk the colour of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She seemed insubstantial as she walked towards him, both of this world and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with a will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered will-o'-the-wisp from his childhood and knew that he had strayed into the realm of the fey.

Only when the woman was directly before him did he see the numerous small courtiers holding the hem. They could not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.

The Faerie Queen, Una.

"Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas," she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

"Greetings, beauteous queen." Padraig bowed deeply, knowing well the price of insulting one of the fey.

"Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one."

"Heard my song?" Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town. "But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard . . ."

Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.

She smiled. "She is not dead, your Rosamunde." Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze. "And now my husband, casting his glance over all of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane."

"I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead." Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. "I saw the fallen rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way."

Una smiled. "The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died."

"Darg!" Padraig exclaimed. He recalled the deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him carefully. "You know this creature."

"Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir."

Una's smile faded. "No. It came in your ship."

Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so well. It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

"It trespa.s.sed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it will bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him."

"My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king will not live to tell the tale of it!"

Una smiled. "With my aid, you will not be detected." She pressed a golden ring into his hand. "Wear this and you shall pa.s.s unseen in any company."

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand filled Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

"With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave."

Una laughed but not because of his compliment. "You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart."

"Which is that, my lady?"

Her eyes glinted with humour. "What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?"

Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?

Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.

Una leaned closer. "To have her own way." Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. "I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift."

"You have already been too kind . . ."

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. All the same, Rosamunde's heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as well as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and antic.i.p.ation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as well?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to challenge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind folly.

"I will go into the caverns alone," she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its a.s.sistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.

"I will accompany you," Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compelled to do so.

She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring all as they challenged convention.

At each other's backs.

While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.

"No, not this time," she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.

She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her. She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.

And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.

She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste. "Take the ship," she told him, in this dream as she had then. "See me ash.o.r.e, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily."

It had been their jest, all those years, that they would one day sell everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun's sultry heat there to the chill of the north.

"But what of the contents?" Padraig's displeasure was clear.

"Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own."

"But . . ."

"I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service." It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.

"But the ship?"

"Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig." Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. "I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better."

It was a lie. She had never had Tynan's love. She had had the illusion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.

On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig's love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.

"You will fare well enough," she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. "I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see will be true."

"What do you see for yourself?" Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. "I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes."

There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.

How could she have missed such an offering?

How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig presented to her.

"Farewell, Padraig," she heard herself say. "May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it."

And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savoured what she had lost through her own folly.

His voice was husky when he spoke. "We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend." His blue eyes filled with heat as he regarded her. "You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other."

"No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you," she said, her heart aching at her own folly.

"I did," Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. "I did," he added softly.

And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out. She touched Padraig's shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned towards her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.

It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, filled with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.

It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.

Was she not dead?

It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish.

Padraig awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.

He had also slept, apparently, in the field.

The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hills and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no small faeries, no footsteps in the gra.s.s.

Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.

He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he'd felt beneath her touch.

Rosamunde had never kissed him.

Except in his dream.

He had indulged too much the night before. It was the ale, confounding him, feeding his desire and leading him astray.

Padraig shoved to his feet, grimacing at the distance he had to walk back to town. His feet were still sore and his head ached. He made to brush himself down, removing the twigs strewn across his clothes, and realized there was something in his hand.

It was a stone. The stone was round with a hole in the middle of it. It was the colour of gold. Was this the golden ring he believed the Faerie Queen had given him?