Ain't Myth-Behaving

by Katie MacAlister

  I held the pose so Megan could have the full effect of the tight ionar stretching across my chest. Once suitable time had passed for that, I turned to face the obviously speechless woman of my dreams.

  The dining room was empty of all but a group of men in kilts, clutching bagpipes and bodhrans, huddled together in the minstrels’ alcove.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” I asked, at the same time that Stewart said, “My lord, I tried to tell you—Miss Megan and the others went out with Taranis.”

  “Taranis? What’s he doing here?”

  “I have no idea. He was simply here when Megan and I entered the dining room. Before I could say anything, he introduced himself and took her off on a tour of the castle.”

  “A tour of the castle? He took my wife-to-be on a tour of my castle-that-is? Argh!” I spun on my heel and bolted out of the dining room, up the stairs to the entryway, and out the door, pausing to scan the horizon for the sight of Megan.

  The hellhounds followed and lifted their heads as one, catching the scent of a newcomer. In a flash, six furry little bow-bedecked bodies were bounding over rock and earth, their voices torn from the very depths of the Underworld as they hunted their prey. They ran around the castle perimeter three times with me on their heels before I realized they were following the track of one of the barn cats, not Taranis. By the time I corrected them, and they’d set off across the rocky rubble after their proper prey, my heart was pounding, I had a stitch in my side, and was short of breath.

  “…and of course, it’s all gone to ruin now, but it was a lovely castle in its prime, I’ll give that much to Dane. Not that he knew what he was doing when he built it on this forsaken bit of rock, but I’ve always said that people learn best from their own mistakes. Which means Dane should be the most knowledgeable man on the earth, but we know just how unlikely that is,” Taranis was saying with a low, intimate laugh to Megan when I finally ran them to ground. He turned to look, one eyebrow cocked as I doubled over, hands on my knees in a desperate attempt to keep from collapsing while I caught my breath. “Good evening, Dane. I was just showing this delightful young lady around Castle Bannon, giving her the benefit of my unique knowledge of history. A bit out of shape, are we?”

  “Mine,” I gasped, snatching her hand from where Taranis was helping her over a large chunk of granite. I clung to her hand like it was a life raft and prayed I wouldn’t collapse of a burst artery right there in front of her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Megan asked with a flash of her eyes as she jerked her hand from my desperate grasp.

  “I was just lending her a hand over this treacherous ground,” Taranis answered with an amused twitch of his lips. He was everything I loathed in a man—a high, sweeping forehead topped with glossy blond hair, its waves slicked back with some sort of smelly pomade, a frilly lace jabot that looked downright affected, overly pleated trousers, and square-toed Milan shoes that always left me with the urge to scuff their polished perfection. His eyes, a muddy hazel, always wore an expression of near boredom, as if he could just barely tolerate his present company. “If I owned Bannon, I would have had this mess cleared away years ago. So dangerous, not to mention unattractive. But then, you’ve never cared much for appearances, have you?”

  “Did you say mine? As in, possession?”

  “My…Megan…will…help her…over…rocks,” I gasped, still desperately trying to get some air into my lungs. The blood pounding in my ears made it a bit difficult to hear, and I had a horrible presentiment that the extreme emotion I felt in seeing her standing so close to Taranis was about to trigger the manifestation.

  “I am not anyone’s possession!”

  “Of course you’re not, my dear. Some men simply do not grasp that women are their equals, if not superiors, and attempt to assert their dominance by categorizing them as something with no more worth than a cow or piece of pottery,” Taranis said in his smooth, oily voice.

  The manifestation burst from me at the same time as Megan gave Taranis a long, cool look. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she told him.

  The hellhounds, who had swarmed out to the far end of the field to savage the corpse of a long-deceased mole, returned with the spoils of their victory, their eyes crimson with the torment of the damned.

  “Oooh, you brought your poodles!” She bent down to pat one, but it snarled and rumbled a warning that came straight from the belly of the Underworld. I threw myself forward to protect her from the vicious beast, stumbled over a rock, and ended up facedown in the dirt. Megan reached over my prostrate form and rapped the hellhound smartly on its miniature muzzle. “Bad dog! No growling! Bad!”

  To my intense surprise, the hellhound retreated, a puzzled look on its face.

  Megan’s expression changed from haughty frost to concern as she bent over me. “Are you all right?”

  “Heart attack…highly probable…must help…you…Taranis…bad…”

  “For heaven’s sake, sit down and catch your breath. You sound like an elderly Tarzan,” she said, helping me to my knees. Her eyes widened at the manifestation, although in all honesty, it could have been the clods of earth bedecking the horns like the last few leaves on a barren tree that gave her pause. “You’ve…er…got something on your antlers. Shall I just remove it?”

  The gentle touch of her fingers on the sensitive manifestation sent a shiver down my back. I allowed her to pluck the muddy clods of grass from the antlers, sitting when she pushed me back onto the block of granite Taranis had helped her climb over.

  I glared past her shoulder at the man in question. He stood with smug enjoyment, watching as Megan worked over me. “This is the woman you’ve decided to make your goddess?” he asked in Gaelic. “Quite the impression you’re making on her—winded, babbling, horns bristling out of you every which way, and covered in muck.”

  I told him in succinct brevity what he could do with himself.

  “Is that Irish Gaelic?” Megan asked as she finished with my antlers. She made a face at the mud and dirt smeared across my léine and ionar, and dabbed at them briefly with a tissue she pulled from her pocket.

  “Yes, it was,” I answered, having at last regained my breath. I gathered the tattered shreds of my dignity around me and rose to my feet. “Taranis told me I made quite an impression on you.”

  She laughed as I brushed off my trews and ionar. “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

  “Deus, man, just look at you!” Taranis asked, waving a hand at me. “Is it any wonder the woman is in hysterics at the sight of you? What in the name of all that’s holy are you wearing? Are those trews? I haven’t seen those in a good three hundred years.”

  I gave him a level look, even though my belly was tightening to a tight wad of embarrassment. That Taranis laughed at me, I could bear. But for Megan to mock me…pain cut through me in a shaft as sharp as a steel blade. “It’s an authentic medieval Irish outfit. It’s part of the dinner presentation for the history of the castle.”

  “Well, it’s damned silly-looking, and rightly covered in muck. Go playact for the other tourists while I tell this lovely lady the way things really were.” He took Megan’s arm and turned her toward the castle.

  The hellhounds swarmed around my feet as I watched him urge her forward. My heart, an organ I hadn’t given much consideration to in the past, contracted painfully. I wanted to rip Megan from Taranis’s side, to prove to him once and for all that she was mine, but an image rose in my head of what I must look like—horny, muddy, and dressed in antiquated, if manly, clothing. The hellhounds, ever sensitive to my emotions, tipped back their heads in unison and howled their pain to the sky as I wiped the last of the mud off the knees of my trews.

  A white tissue hove into view, held by a graceful hand. I looked up.

  Megan stood in front of me, Taranis several yards behind her, an astonished look on his face. But it was her eyes, her gloriously warm eyes, that dashed the breath from my lungs and caused my heart to start beating again. “I think
the outfit is quite dashing. It makes you look rugged, and rather primal. It’s very sexy.”

  “I’m not normally this clumsy,” I assured her, covertly searching her face for the least sign of pity.

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  “I am known by all and sundry for my ability to walk without falling face first into the mud, as a matter of fact. People all over the county honor me for just that talent.” I relaxed a little—there was no sign of pity in her face, just sympathetic understanding.

  “I have no doubt they do.”

  “Men envy my lack of clumsiness. Women admire my grace.”

  “Do they, indeed.” The sympathetic expression slipped a bit.

  “It’s no exaggeration to say that women the country over have been known to drive miles just to watch me walk without so much as stumbling,” I added.

  Her lips pursed.

  “Too much?” I asked, reading disbelief in her eyes.

  “It was the women driving across the country that pushed you over the line, yes,” she answered, nodding.

  “Right. It’s just Taranis. I’m fine any other time, but he does something to show me up, like changing my hellhounds to pom-poms on legs, or causing the mud to slip just when I’m walking on it, and…oh, myriad other things I won’t go into now, because you look like you need your supper.”

  Taranis stood with his hands on his hips as he called to Megan, “Come, little one! I will tell you about the Portuguese, and how they tried to invade Ireland.”

  Megan, bless her heart, ignored him.

  “I had a boss who used to intimidate me so much, it made me spill coffee all the time,” she said quietly, offering me the tissue again.

  I took it and wiped my hands. As my anger and frustration faded, so did the manifestation. “I’m not intimidated by Taranis. It’s just that he does something whenever he’s around.”

  “Megan! I have much to tell you—without a tatty little mud-splattered costume. I will be happy to take you on a tour of historically important spots in the county, but we should get started now, before the sun goes down.”

  “I know the feeling,” Megan told me, her eyes on my forehead. She was silent for a moment before adding, “I don’t think I could ever get tired of watching that. It’s so…amazing!”

  I took both of her hands in mine. “And could you ever get tired of me?”

  Her gaze dropped to mine, her eyes as clear and fathomless as the most flawless aquamarine. There was caution and wariness in those eyes, but there was also an acknowledgment of the intangible something between us. I felt it, and I knew she felt it, but it worried and confused her. And I knew with a deep awareness I’d never felt for another human being that she was not ready to commit to me.

  “Megan! Come away from Dane. I have limited time available, and we must get started now.” Taranis’s voice had an ugly edge of command that I knew would rile the woman standing before me.

  I lifted one hand, then another, brushing my lips against her fingers in a caress that promised much. “Stay with me, dearling?”

  She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving mine. The question in them was clear to read.

  “Tonight,” I answered, wanting to ask her for more, but knowing she wasn’t ready. “Stay with me tonight.”

  Her fingers curled in mine as Taranis stomped over to us, and she told him, “I’m sorry. A tour of the county sounds lovely, but I think I’d like to see Dane’s dinner presentation instead. The castle has such a fabulous presence, I’d like to know more about its history. Perhaps I can take a rain check on the tour?”

  I led her away with only one tiny triumphant glance at Taranis.

  His answering glare burned holes of promised retribution into my back.

  Eight

  T hree days later I slammed shut the door to my study before stomping over to Stewart’s desk. “What do you know about women?”

  “They smell nice, they don’t like to be told they can’t do something, and when they’re naked, they hold some sort of mystical power that overrides our brains and makes us do and say things that would normally be inconceivable,” Stewart answered without looking up from his laptop.

  “Why aren’t you married?” I demanded to know.

  That made him look up. “Pardon?”

  “Why aren’t you married? You’re such an expert on women—why haven’t you plucked one out of the crowd and married her?”

  “For one, I never said I was an expert, and for another, in case it’s slipped your attention, I’m a steward in the house of Cernunnos, and thus immortal. I find it difficult to establish relationships with women who I know will grow old and die in less time than it takes me to grow a reasonable mustache.”

  I glanced at his bare upper lip and conceded his point. “There are immortal women. You have not married any of them.”

  “Perhaps that’s because I have had a very good example of just what happens when a man chooses unwisely.”

  Fidencia’s face rose before my eyes, and I was forced to concede the truth behind that statement as well. “It’s all very well for you to be selective, but I do not have that luxury. I’ve found Megan, but I am fast running out of time, and the woman whom I have chosen above all others to spend eternity at my side has spurned my every advance.” I paced the length of the room, something I’d been doing a lot of the last three days.

  “What’s Megan done to you now?”

  “Nothing. She’s done nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean exactly that. She hardly speaks to me, she refuses to look at me except when she thinks I can’t see her, and she insists that those two leeches in human form always be with her, preventing me from speaking to her of private matters.”

  Stewart leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “Ah. The old ‘He’s not going to get me alone’ ploy, is it? I wondered what she’d do after that night she almost shoved me down the staircase. That was, if I am not mistaken, the same night you reassured me that her pique was nothing to worry about, and that you had matters well in hand.”

  I snarled an oath. “I did. Then Taranis showed up and threw a spanner into the works, that bastard. He knows she’s mine! He has no need for her, yet he’s taken her out two of the last three days to see the county. See the county.” I sneered. “I can’t believe she’d fall for that line. I know just as much about the history of the area as him—more, since I was interested in doing more than spawning brats on every woman within a fifty-mile radius. God knows how many of the little blighters are roaming around, after six hundred years of his unbridled shagging.”

  Stewart pursed his lips. “It can’t be denied that Lord Taranis has a rather sizable number of progeny, but I believe your jealousy in this respect is unjustified. I have seen the looks Miss Megan throws your way. She is not averse to you.”

  “Of course she’s not averse to me. I had her all but eating out of my hand the night of the presentation. But then Taranis got his hooks into her good and proper, and since then she’s been very, very polite but won’t let me get close to her.”

  “Has it occurred to you that perhaps her reserve is a natural result of the situation, rather than an interest in Lord Taranis?” Stewart asked, watching me pace.

  “It’s possible, but doubtful,” I said, dismissing the idea. “I’ve made every effort to ensure that Megan has all the information pertinent to the situation. I have tried to spend every waking moment with her, so that she will feel she knows me and be comfortable with committing herself to me for the rest of her life. Yet she spurns me in favor of him.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly as I gave vent to a few choice words about Taranis.

  “She’s just being obstinate, that’s what it is. She refuses to acknowledge the fact that she was meant to be my goddess. And here we are with three days left to Beltane, and my wooing program is far behind. We should have been up to physical intimacies by this point! And what the hell is all that din?”

  “The druids, I believe,” Stewart s
aid calmly, answering the phone.

  I stomped my frustration over to the window to see what the horrible grating noise outside was. Elfwine had her druids busily erecting a giant maypole, entwined with ivy and flowers, bearing long garlands of greenery. To the left of the maypole, one of the druids was on a ladder next to a light pole that now also bore a loudspeaker, his hands over his ears as someone tried the PA system. The Beltane festival, held each year to celebrate both the coming transition of seasons and my wedding, was coming together nicely…with the exception of the one person vital to the success of the party.

  “This is unacceptable,” I told the window. “I have tried to woo her. I have made every effort to get to know her, to please her, to allow her to become comfortable with the notion that I will worship her to the end of our days, but she will not be reasonable and allow herself to be courted.”

  Stewart hung up the phone. “Sorry?”

  “I blame Taranis for this.”

  “Of course you do,” he said blithely. “You blame him for everything. Erm…would we still be talking about the situation with Megan?”

  “Naturally. Except for him, Megan would be in my arms this very moment. And my bed.” I recommenced pacing.

  “You can hardly blame Taranis for dribbling spiced plums down the front of your léine the other night,” Stewart said, struggling to control what I suspected was a smile.

  “Like hell I can’t. Every time I went to take a mouthful, he jostled my arm. Deliberately!”

  “Ah. Well, I’m afraid I didn’t happen to see that, being busy at the time with the performance.”

  I paused and cast my mind back to that evening. “That brings up a question—why, for a presentation depicting the august and fascinating history of this equally august and fascinating castle, were there musicians who bore not only Scottish instruments, but who also played Scottish ballads, marches, and jigs?”