The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 52

Branna.

The cloaked men around him transformed into sleek, powerful, white hounds. His uncle and the dogs moved as one to take up offensive positions.

Devlin raised his hand, stilling them. "I shall handle this."

He stepped a short distance from the circle, headed for Branna. "Halt. You must leave at once."

"Not until I get what I want." She slid from the horse and walked towards him.

"You have no more business here. Return to your family and forget this."

She didn't stop. "Nay."

Devlin drew his sword and held it stiffly before him. She stumbled when the moonlight struck it, glinting off its broad edge, but continued walking until she reached its sharp tip.

Devlin search her face, agonizing over his next words, barely moving for fear he'd nick her throat. "Please . . . don't come closer. I've no wish to harm you."

I wish to take you in my arms, but it would be your death.

She swallowed and whispered, "Nay."

A chuckle almost escaped. He remembered their first meet had gone this way. "You must give up the chalice. It is lost to you."

"'Tis not the chalice I seek."

"What then?" Devlin words were ragged, not sure he could bear her closeness.

"'Tis you."

"Nay, I'm lost." The words slipped out painfully from between his tightly clenched teeth. "My uncle told me of your mother's betrayal. She pushed my father into the jaws of the dogs. You must understand, she had to die."

"Nay! Your uncle has lied to you. My mother took your father's hand, prepared to fight beside him. But your father pushed her back to protect her. I was there. I saw it. My mother loved your father, as I love you."

Confusion and anger ripped through Devlin. "You saw them fight together?"

"Aye."

Devlin knew she did not lie.

Branna eased forwards until the tip of his sword pressed the base of her throat. "You are not evil. The evil you feel is from the dogs, as they last touched the chalice before it was buried. I believe you want to be released from this burden. I believe you want me."

Devlin's knees buckled as she leaned into the point. The sword p.r.i.c.ked her skin, drawing a bead of blood. She closed her eyes. "You won't hurt me. I trust you."

The sight of crimson against her smooth white skin, skin he'd kissed and stroked, made him ill.

Aghast, he sank to his knees, sick and shaken. His sword dropped, the blade falling to the ground beside him. "Nay, I cannot harm you. I love you."

The dogs growled menacingly behind him. He felt their presence closing in.

Devlin set his jaw. The idea seeded in him earlier had now taken root in his soul. He'd gain his heart's desire revenge against his uncle. He would not allow this evil to continue; it would stop with him. Even if it meant losing himself to the Underworld . . . and losing Branna.

Devlin stood, thrust the chalice into Branna's hands and retrieved his sword. "Go. The chalice is yours. This is my fight."

Branna shook her head. She pulled a small dirk from the folds of her skirt and grabbed his hand. "Nay. I will fight by your side. Together, we will defeat this evil."

The dogs moved and encircled them, three to their two. Branna stood back to back with Devlin, each of them keeping the dogs within sight.

When Branna came close to the tomb, she threw the chalice within, praying its sacredness would protect it.

While she was distracted, the dogs attacked. Devlin whirled, pushing her against the tall rock. Branna stifled a scream as two hounds simultaneously launched at him. With a wide swipe of his sword, he sc.r.a.ped the first dog in the chest, splaying open a wound.

The blade continued its deadly path cleanly connecting with the neck of the other dog, beheading it. Both dogs fell to the earth. The headless dog was instantly sucked underground. The first dog lay panting hard, gravely injured. Its breaths slowed and stopped, then it was pulled below.

The third dog growled low in his throat. Branna gasped and moved out from behind Devlin. By its eyes, she recognized him as the lead dog, the one who'd panted in her face when she was a child. He snarled and bent low, jumping not at Devlin, but at her.

"Branna, no!"

Devlin brought his sword around, the blade awkwardly twisted away from its target. As she saw the dog flying towards her, Devlin threw his body in front of her and the dog's jaws clamped down mere inches from her face. Devlin and the hound fell, snarling and grappling, a tangle of limbs. The dog gained the top, standing on Devlin's chest, his hand and wrist in its jaws.

Branna gripped the dirk hard and threw herself at its back, stabbing it in the neck. It yelped and fell off Devlin, rolling on the ground, injured but not dead. Devlin quickly gained his feet and stabbed it in the chest. It too went still and disappeared under the earth.

"How very touching."

Branna was yanked by her hair and pulled against the chest of Devlin's uncle, his sword to her throat. This blade she knew could end her life.

Devlin gained his feet, his heart thumping as once again a blade rested at Branna's throat.

"Release her. This is our fight, not hers."

"I'm the better swordsman, especially with you injured." He nodded to Devlin's bleeding hand. Devlin held his sword strong and true, even as his bloodied arm throbbed. He didn't care about the pain. He'd bear it to save Branna.

"Would you like to lose an arm to prove it?"

"Would you betray me as did your father?" His uncle's voice turned soft, pleading. "She is of the same evil seed as her mother. She'll destroy you. We must kill her, destroy the chalice and continue with our heart's desire the ceremony that will make you a ruler."

Devlin had his heart's desire in Branna. "I want the truth. Why did my father die?"

"It was an unfortunate miscalculation. Your father was besotted by that woman. He'd already sipped from the chalice and betrayed us. I couldn't allow the marriage. I called to the dogs."

"You called the dogs?"

"Aye. She was evil. Your father couldn't see the wisdom of her death. He was weak, not like you who are strong."

"What was of such great consequence you would sacrifice your own blood, your brother?"

"I was supposed to lead the Underworld, not the dogs. I made a bargain with the Lord of the Underworld, the most powerful of rulers. Yet there is always a sacrifice. The cost of my heart's desire was my brother . . . and now you."

"That is why you groomed me? To replace your brother, so you could have power?"

His uncle's expression turned cold. "You shan't judge me." He glanced at the moon. "We waste time." He pulled Branna by her hair towards the tomb. "Give me the chalice."

Branna exchanged glances with Devlin. She reached in and retrieved it.

Once she had it in her possession, his uncle grabbed the chalice and pushed Branna away. "This is mine. I have to make it right." He backed up and tripped on one of the discarded rocks from the previous night. He lost his balance and stumbled into the portal tomb.

His eyes turned into glowing red orbs like the dogs. His feet began sliding under the earth. "What's happening? No, no this can't be right. I gave you my brother. I'll deliver my nephew to you. Don't do . . . this . . . to me."

A loud roaring filled Devlin's ears and, within seconds, his uncle disappeared under the earth in a puff of smoke. The chalice bounced unharmed on the charred surface.

Branna lay where she'd fallen, exhausted by the ordeal but relieved. Devlin strode to the burned earth beneath the dolmen. He picked up the chalice and kicked the empty ground. With a shake of his head, he walked to her and offered her his hand.

"'Tis once again we find ourselves here."

Branna gave him her hand and allowed him to pull her into his arms. "Aye, yet this time I'm not afraid."

Devlin kissed the wounds on her neck, his warm lips soothing, removing the sting. "You were afraid of me?"

"Quaking in my boots, my lord. You have a most powerful sword."

Devlin said, "And now what do you feel?"

"I feel the evil has been captured as surely as the hounds, save one."

He smiled broadly. "Aye. Enough so the triumphant hound wishes to marry the hare."

He held out the chalice. "Would you give up your quest to see your mother reborn? Will you have me?"

Branna placed her hand over his, moonlight glittering off the chalice's green emeralds.

"Aye, I'll have you."

Branna knelt beside Devlin at the altar of the little stone chapel. Sunlight streamed through the stained gla.s.s windows, projecting the tree and colours on the stone floor. Branna's freshly cleaned yellow gown flowed about her ankles. A garland of white flowers had been woven in her dark hair and streamed down her back.

"I, Devlin, take thee, Branna, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, till death do us part, if the holy church will ordain it: and thereto I plight thee my troth."

The priest handed Branna the golden chalice, embedded with brilliant emeralds. She took a sip, her eyes meeting Devlin's over its gilded rim. She pa.s.sed the chalice to him. He took a sip and then held the cup high.

Branna placed her hand over his, both their hands wrapped around the chalice's centre.

They said in unison, their voices blending as strong as their love: "'Tis my heart's desire."

The Seventh Sister.

Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

The Beginning..

Howth Village, Ireland twelve years ago.

Maggie Gleason, American tourist, self-declared adventurist and soon-to-be college student, stepped off the bus from Dublin and straight into her dreams. At last, she was following the path of her ancestors. She glanced about, her pulse quickening. Shivers of excitement raced through her. She wanted to lift her arms and twirl in a circle. Instead she stood still and simply absorbed. Without doubt, she'd never experienced a moment more thrilling.

Dublin was wonderful, but busy. This was the Ireland she'd come to see.

The little quay was everything she'd imagined. Colourful fishing boats bobbed in the harbour. The curving stone pier looked just like the photos she'd seen. And the neat line of cottages and pubs stretching along the waterfront couldn't be more perfect.

Howth was magic.

It was a living postcard, full of charm and quaintness.

Even the weather G.o.ds greeted her kindly. Low grey clouds made a picturesque backdrop and the light wind off the sea let the waves dance cheerily. Maggie pressed a hand to her breast and walked over to the sea wall, enchanted. She took a deep breath, savouring the cool, damp air. It was so different from the stifling heat and mugginess of summer back home in Philadelphia.

Everything around her felt so welcoming and special.

So Irish.

Maggie smiled, the Gael in her filling her soul and making her pulse race with a giddy sense of recognition. Tingling happiness rippled through her, even warming her toes. Suddenly she wasn't a tourist standing on the quay, here because she'd seen a few yellowed pictures of Howth in her grandmother's old photo alb.u.ms.

She was someone who belonged.

Above her, a seagull wheeled and cried before settling on to the swaying mast of a yacht. The bird angled its head and peered down at her, looking on as a wave smacked the jetty, dousing her with a mist of spray.

Laughing delightedly, Maggie swiped the moisture from her cheek, secretly deciding that Ireland had kissed her. Sweet, too, would be a few kisses from the tall, dark-haired young man working on one of the boats in the harbour. The boat a st.u.r.dy, blue-hulled craft called Morna was moored only a stone's throw from where she stood, but the cute Irishman didn't appear to notice her.

Which was fine as it gave her a better chance to admire his deeply cut dimples and how his black shoulder-length hair whipped in the wind. The way he wore his faded jeans, Aran sweater and thick work boots wasn't too shabby either. When he glanced up at the rolling clouds and she caught a glimpse of his sky-blue eyes, she really wished he'd kiss her.

He made her breath catch.

From nowhere, or perhaps from her heart, her grandmother's words flashed across her mind. "Someday you'll see, Maggie girl. The glory of Ireland isn't just the green of our hills and the blue of the sea. Nor is it all those soft, misty days. Or the way the light shimmers, polishing the sky until you'd swear you're looking at the world through a swirl of finest gossamer silk. That's part of it, true. But the real magic is inside us." Here, Granny Gleason would lean forwards, clutching the arms of her rocker. "It's the music in our voices and the fullness of our hearts. The way we can move forward when we must, yet still keep our traditions alive."

Maggie blinked and swallowed, half-sure her long-dead grandmother had just stood beside her, whispering the words in her ear.

Now she knew the truth of them.

She also knew the dishy Irishman on the boat was looking at her.

Maggie's heart slammed against her ribs. The Irishman grinned. His blue gaze locked on hers and the pleasure in his eyes made the ground tilt beneath her feet. Heat swept her, tingly and delicious. She touched a hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth of her blush.

It was then that a large black and white dog bolted past her, almost knocking her down as he made a sailing leap into the Morna. The Irishman bent to scratch the dog's ears as the collie leaned into him, his plumed tail wagging in enthusiastic greeting.

Maggie stared, embarra.s.sment scalding her. She wished she could disappear.

The Irishman hadn't been flirting with her.