Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Book 1)

by Colleen Charles

  I start to lose patience with this uppity young wan. “Listen, if this here bombardier’s banjaxed, there’s nair a mechanic that can fix it in town. And if yer driver doesn’t make it back soon, yer be completely buggered by morning. Now, let’s be off. I won’t take nay for an answer. The only corpses on me watch are the ones that I kill meself.”

  A drop of melted snow drips off my nose and splats on the floor of the coach, adding to the puddle I’m already creating around my feet. Her expression goes from confused to panic-stricken as she backs away down the aisle between the seats. Does she not ken the seriousness of this situation?

  I said corpse.

  “Get out!” She points toward the door. “You paparazzi will try anything, won’t you? Dressing up like some kind of Irish Grizzly Adams, trying to lure me out into the open. Where’s your camera crew? Hiding in the woods?”

  What the feck? Papa-what-sy? I rake back the wet thatches of hair that flop over my eyes with my hand. “Lass, I’ve got nay feckin’ idea what yer on about. There’s nothing hidin’ in the woods. Me cottage’s only twenty minutes from here. Yer be safe there. Again, me sister is a feisty one. If I leave yer here to meet yer maker and Caris gets wind of it, she’ll nag me ‘til I’m old ‘n gray. Not to mention the rest of me folks in Wintervale. Yer could be the reason I don’t get any gee from now ‘til eternity. Now, listen up and do what a man tells yer.”

  Her face transforms from panicked to surprised to ornery, all in the space of a few seconds. “Bullshit. I’m safe right here. If you think I’m going anywhere with a stranger, especially one who looks like a yeti, you’re out of your fucking mind. Don’t you know who I am?”

  I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. The drip of melting snow becomes just as annoying as her prickly attitude. “How would I be knowin’ that? I’ve never clapped eyes on yer afore.” I take a step toward her. “But I’ll not be leavin’ a stranded lass by herself. If yer dead set on stoppin’ here, I’ll make yer a deal. I’ll set with yer for a ‘alf-hour, and if yer driver’s not back by then, I’ll take yer into town meself.”

  “How?” she asks doubtfully. “Got a Polaris parked outside?”

  I grit my teeth. No point in arguing right now, or kenning what the hell a polaris might be. In any case, I don’t have anything parked outside or she would have heard it approach. Don’t believe in motorized vehicles, I don’t. Too toxic for the environment and too fecking hard on my sensitive ears. I set down my sling bag and make myself comfortable on one of the seats.

  “’Alf-hour,” I repeat. “What’s yer name, woman?”

  The girl lowers herself cautiously onto a seat across the aisle from me, her expression somewhere between astonished and outraged. Shite, her eyes are hypnotic, glowing green as emeralds. The arched eyebrows above them almost looked painted on like a porcelain doll Caris once had as a lass. Their black color matches the waves of hair that flows down past her shoulders like two rivers of raw coal, even longer than my own, which says something considering I haven’t cut it since I was a lad. And she has some meat on her with those delicious fun bags hinting at the continuing landscape of curves beneath her long coat. I like a lass with some weight to her, not some skinny stripling that might blow away in a stiff wind.

  “You really don’t know who I am?” she asks again, intimating I’m either a few bricks short of a load or I’ve been living under a rock. The latter isn’t far from the truth. To say Wintervale is back of beyond is an understatement. Some might call me a bogger. Right before they get the shite kicked out of them.

  “Ain’t the foggiest. But I’ll spare yer the guessin’ game yer teasin’ me with for some sadistic reason. Name’s Ronan O’Farrell,” I say, extending my hand. When she tentatively reaches out to grasp it, her milky white skin contrasts drastically with the dirt-worn grubbiness of my own. Obviously, this townie hasn’t done a lick of real work in her life.

  Lazy. Check.

  “Savannah Starr,” she says, her palm meeting mine in a gentle press. The warmth of it radiates right past my calluses. Nothing short of my own lit woodstove normally cuts through the thick skin of my hands. There’s something distinctly different about this girl, and it nearly gives me the shivers. She seems foreign yet familiar, like bits of a fable my granny told coming back to me. No, not a fable. A song. One I’ve forgotten the words to but not the haunting melody. I rarely forget a song. Music’s too important to me.

  “Savannah,” I repeat with a nod. Sounds like a stripper name to me. I’ll be all in for that show, if it’s the case. “Where is it yer from, and what yer be doin’ here in Ireland, Miss Starr?”

  She shakes her raven-haired head in disdain and folds her arms across the magnificent rack that’s been drawing my attention more than it should. She’s a traveler and not from my world, so she’s not for me…even for a quick tumble. “L.A. I’m here on tour with my band. Or at least I was until we broke down here in the middle of nowhere. We played Waterford last night. Hope we can still make the ferry. We have a show in Glasgow tomorrow night.”

  “Glasgow?” I nearly laugh outright. “Yer a fair sight from Glasgow, miss. If yer mean the ferry out of Belfast, yer gonna be a tad late, I’m afraid.” A band? I don’t see any band, but I take another glance around and notice a guitar propped up on one of the seats. She’s a musician? That catches my interest even more than the mounds of plump flesh I want to suck and bite.

  “What do you mean? We’ll make it. We have to make it!” Her voice gets louder with each word. “I can’t disappoint my fans.”

  Fans?

  “Well, with yer transport gone arseways, there’s nay way yer makin’ Belfast tonight. ‘Tis hours away. Even if yer man gets this hulkin’ bus goin’, the roads will be diabolical in this weather. Why are yer not on the motorway? The M-74s a straight shot to Belfast. ‘Ow the feck did yer get on this backwater boreen?”

  “Could you please speak English?” she fairly shouts. “There was a big wreck, okay? I wanted to blow this ass-backward country as fast as possible so we tried going around it. So far, no one’s given me much of a reason to stick around.” She pierces me with a deadly glare. It doesn’t faze me. As the leader of my people, I tolerate a woman’s ire more and better than most. If anything, it makes me even more interested, except the part where she slagged my homeland.

  “Oh, so yer been here five minutes, and yer fit to judge, are yer? Perhaps yer should see a bit of the countryside afore yer shite all over it.”

  “I don’t need to,” she shoots back. “By the look of you, I’ll bet you’ve ‘shite’ on it plenty of times. And without the benefit of a roll of Charmin.”

  “Roll of what? And yer ask me to speak English,” I scoff, hating her prickly personality while lusting after her generous curves all at the same time. She’s a conundrum, she is. “But,” I say, clapping my hands on my knees. “If yer gonna hurl insults, I’ll just be on me way. Clearly, me help is nay appreciated.” I stand and reach for my bag. “Good day to yer, Miss Starr. Enjoy yer evenin’.”

  Daylight wanes fast at this time of year, and I don’t fancy slogging through the snow in the dark. I also don’t fancy hanging about with a smart-mouthed shrew that has no sense of gratitude or manners. I brush past her on my way to the door.

  “Wait!” She takes a deep breath, her hand on my arm. “Ronan, was it? I’m sorry, I just…you frightened me. You’re gruff and kind of large.”

  I stop and turn around against my better judgment. This is usually the part where the manipulation comes at me full force. “Yer best be afraid of what’s outside this bus, not in.”

  “Can you blame me? You’re dressed like a grizzly bear. You came out of nowhere. What was I supposed to think?” Her pomegranate-red lips rise into a childish pout. Oh, don’t do the pucker up, woman. It makes me want to do things to that bonny mouth. My cock twitches in my underwear as I imagine her sucking it down the back of her throat, her hands squeezing my arse until she takes my load. “Please don’t go, I…I thin
k I heard a wolf earlier. Can you stay until my driver gets back?”

  I promised her a half-hour, and it’s almost up. No wolves have been seen in this vale in decades, but she wouldn’t know that. However, there will very likely be other animals lurking about at twilight, and full dark will soon be upon us. I can’t change the Wheel of the Year. As much as I need to return to the cottage before nightfall, I can’t leave her alone. That would hardly be civilized, despite her opinion of my uncivilized appearance. There’s no way to know what’s become of her driver. I hope she’s not too attached to the man because he’s most likely a frosty American popsicle by now.

  “No. I can’t stay. It’s almost dark. Yer can either wait for him on yer own, or yer can come with me. I’ll get yer to town, but we’ve got to move now.”

  “But what if Mel comes back, and I’m not here?”

  “Leave him a message.”

  She sighs, looking desperate, then flops back against her seat. “I’ll stay here.”

  What? Fecking hell! This is the most stubborn little gee I’ve ever come across, American or Irish.

  “Suit yerself,” I say, turning away again.

  She’s immediately on her feet. “No! Stay here with me, please…” I glance over my shoulder. “I’ll pay you,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, that full lower lip tucked between her teeth.

  Pay me? As if money makes a difference to me. I have everything I need in my land, my cottage, and my people. And far more accommodating bettys than this squawking bird. “Look, yer either come with me or stay here and accompany the wolves’ serenade with yer dulcet chords,” I say, gesturing at the guitar. “Yer decide, but either way, I’m leavin’ now.”

  Chapter Three

  Savannah

  This is hands down the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know this man-beast from the abominable snowman, and here I am following him blindly into the white wilderness. I must be nuts…certifiably bat-shit. If I get out of here alive, it’s going to be a miracle worthy of my written memoirs.

  With each step, I remind myself that he can do anything to me, and no one will ever know. No one will even hear me scream. Still, the thought of being alone in the bus with no heat or light terrifies me more than accepting his offer. As odd as it is, there seems something inherently trustworthy about him. A clear leader. Leader of what, I don’t know. He appears to be a salt-of-the-earth type, and he knows his way around the area which is more than I can say for myself. Perhaps he’s got a working telephone.

  I leave Mel a note telling him the bus engine died, a local offered me a lift into town, and that I’d catch up with him there. I wrap a scarf around my head, sling my purse strap crossways over my shoulder, and grab my coat before following the hulking stranger out of the bus and onto the road.

  I look down at my shoes. I’m wearing boots—well, sort of—but they aren’t anywhere close to what is required of me right now. After a quick mental check of my closet, I know I don’t have any better options on board. It never occurred to me that I’d have to walk on anything other than concrete or red carpets, and my selection of footwear is proof.

  “Shit!” I curse as my four-inch Jimmy Choo ankle boots sink into the snow, burying me up to mid shin in cold slush. My wool, tight-fitting leggings aren’t much protection either. Damn, they’ll be ruined forever. I hate this country already, even if my Nana Aislan was one hundred percent Irish and would turn over in her grave if she heard me say so.

  Ronan strides ten feet ahead, oblivious to my distress. I turn to go back inside to gather many more layers of clothes or even grab a blanket, but the bus door hisses closed, and shit…locks all of my professional and personal goods inside. I pull on the door, but it doesn’t budge.

  I have a choice. I can stand here and hammer on the door, or I can follow my only hope for safety. I lurch forward, hopping from one foot to the other like a rabbit through the miserable white stuff to catch up to him.

  “Wait! Slow down!” I yell, then let out an embarrassing shriek when I nearly fall on my ass.

  A gentleman would wait on me, take me by the arm, shield me from the wind and lead me at a pace conducive to my outrageously expensive footwear. I’m used to all men falling at my feet in service to me. Catering to my every whim. Call me a diva, but I’m not digging this scenario one bit.

  Who am I kidding? This brute doesn’t look anything remotely resembling a gentleman? More like a Neanderthal from one of those movies on the Discovery channel about prehistoric man.

  Hardly. The guy is nearly six and a half feet of solid, hulking hairiness. One of those back-to-nature earthy types who denounces society and believes in living off the land. I can certainly tell what he doesn’t believe in, namely soap, Gucci Black, or barber shops. Probably kills his own meat with his bare hands and grows his own vegetables too. Something about his voice, though—aside from a brogue so thick I can barely understand him—is deep and rich like Irish Crème. Now there’s something to love about Ireland. It sends vibrations through my core like one of my bass player’s power riffs, and I feel strangely lured by it, hence the fact I’m now following him like he’s some Gaelic pied piper.

  Ronan stops and turns around. “Hurry on,” he says. “Gotta leg it if we want to get home afore dark.”

  “Home?” I say, finally reaching within a few feet of him. “You said you’d take me into town.”

  “Aye. When the snow lets up, I’ll give yer a ride into town.”

  “Oh, I get it,” I say, realizing his car would, of course, be parked at his home. “How far away are we? From your home?” I clutch the ends of my scarf over my nose and mouth against the driving wind and snow.

  He looks down at me with brooding, dark eyes that shine in the dusk like two pools of ink in the dying light. Yet, they aren’t threatening. They’re quite the opposite. They’re laden with mystery and intrigue and invitation. I should be terrified at what those eyes seem to broadcast. Instead, some part of me that I’ve never met before pleads with my rational brain to lay down in the snow and spread my legs. But I’m not afraid, and I don’t give in to my baser urges either. All my previous panic flees the scene.

  “A few hundred meters. Not far, if yer get a move on.”

  “Could you help me, then? Your legs are a lot longer than mine,” I say, holding out my hand, wondering if he’ll take it and what it might feel like if he does.

  Hoping he’ll take it. Touch me. Protect me.

  Fuck me.

  I shake my head. Christ, where are these erotic thoughts coming from? Celibacy has been my best friend for months. When I’m on the road, I can’t get distracted by men and sex, no matter how many hunky strangers offer their cocks to me on a silver platter.

  For now, I sure as hell don’t want to get left behind in the wake of his giant strides. He seems to hesitate, but then shifts the bag he carries over his shoulder and grips my freezing hand in his huge, rough one. He yanks me forward with the force of a tractor, heading for the edges of the forest. I honestly make an effort to keep up, but it isn’t long before I stumble and fall to my knees. Ronan hoists me to my feet and drags me forward again. I keep my head down as the snow continues to fall and swirl in all directions inside the cover of the forest.

  Despite my legs going numb from the cold, the muscles in my calves burn with the relentless effort of lifting my legs up and down trying to match Ronan’s impossible pace. As I muster a long lunge to close the distance between us, my treacherous high heel snaps and sends me sideways onto the snow-covered ground yet again.

  “Oh! Damn and double damn.” I moan in misery and frustration. When will this trek end? Surely, we must be near his place by now? I can’t see a thing, and now I’m covered in snow, my face and hair wet and freezing.

  I stop only long enough to indulge in a convulsive shiver.

  “Forget it, woman,” Ronan says, scowling. His gruff nature and rude speech would have frightened me if I hadn’t been nearly catatonic from the blood numbing
cold and pain instead. He lets go of my hand and stoops over me. Burly arms snake around me and lift me bodily out of the snow in a single, swift motion. “We’ll make better time this way.”

  Oh my God, is this guy for real? I know I shouldn’t question it. I should just enjoy it while it lasts. Who knows if I’ll ever be rescued like this again in my life. Hoisted up as if I weighed no more than a bag of groceries.

  Thanks to my trainer’s constant reminders, I know I’m no lightweight, yet he carries me forward without so much as a grunt or a wheezing breath. Is he some kind of superhuman hybrid? Perhaps that’s why he hides himself out in the woods like this, away from the prying curiosity of normal people. That scene from “Encino Man” flitters across my brain. Did someone dig Ronan O’Farrell up from the depths of Mother Earth and thaw him into a living, breathing Cro-Magnon man?

  In any case, my tired muscles welcome the respite, and having no other option, I wrap my arms around his neck to remain as stable as possible. Out in the open air, I don’t detect as strong a smell about him as I had inside the bus. It’s not unpleasant exactly, just earthy and raw. His long hair cascades down his back in snow-crusted strands. Its length rivals my own, and I feel a strange urge to dry and comb it out when we get inside, just to feel its texture. Why do men—who don’t even appreciate it—always possess the thickest and healthiest hair?

  Just as I settle into the rhythm of Ronan’s powerful strides, he stops short. In the next instant, I find myself on the ground again, dumped unceremoniously into the snow.

  “Hey!” I yell. Great, now my ass is sore as well as my arms and legs. “That hurt! I didn’t ask you to carry me.”

  He ignores my outburst and crouches down near a fallen tree at the edge of the now-indiscernible path we’re following. He sets down his shoulder bag and begins pawing at something on the ground.

  Seriously? He’s foraging like a damn deer with a storm closing in on us? “What are you doing?” I ask, righteous indignation lacing every syllable.