by Ann Gimpel
Ilona, a naked Jamal, and Aron trudged past, their faces smeared with sooty stripes. Yara figured she didn’t look any better. Ilona and Jamal carried handfuls of clothing scraps, probably the remains of what he’d been wearing.
“If you’d like, you can borrow some of my clothes too,” she called after Ilona. “I have an oversized shirt or two that might fit Jamal.”
“Thanks!” the other woman stopped in the doorway and turned to face her. “It may come to that, but I think I can patch these with a combination of magic and my sewing kit.”
“If there’s a way to bend magic to repair cloth, I want to learn,” Tairin spoke up.
Ilona rolled her eyes. “Let’s see how well this works. I haven’t actually tried it yet.”
“Meet you back in our cabin,” Elliott told Tairin and left the room with Michael leaning on him.
Stewart hoisted one of the bodies over his shoulder and staggered upright, grunting from effort. “Got to get him up on deck,” he explained. “Cadr or Vreis will help me with the invocation to drive any remaining taint of evil from this man so his death will be clean and his spirit free to find the Otherworld. We’ll repeat the same blessing for the other two as well.”
“Can I help?” Yara asked.
“Nay, but the offer is appreciated.” Stewart trudged past, twisting sideways to fit through the narrow door with his burden. Magic bloomed, forming a coruscation around him and the dead man.
“He’ll need that power and then some to hoist that body up two flights of stairs.” Tairin recovered the tatters that had been her clothes off the gore-stained floor.
“I offered to help.” Yara stared after Stewart, still prepared to follow him.
“Men like him rarely require assistance.” Tairin’s mouth twisted wryly. “I recognize the mindset from my years in caravans.” She headed the opposite way Stewart had gone since both ends of the corridor running from bow to stern had stairwells.
“How long did you bury your shifter side, pretending you were Romani?” Yara asked.
“I didn’t bury my shifter side.” Tairin’s words vibrated with rebuke. “My wolf wouldn’t have stood for that. We’d slip away from time to time so it could run free. And I wasn’t pretending on the Romani side of things. My mother was Rom.”
Yara winced. “Sorry. It was a really poor choice of words on my part. I’m not at my best right now.”
“It’s all right. No offense taken. I’m a little shorter-fused than normal. That go-round with the demons rattled me.” Tairin took a measured breath. “I had to move from caravan to caravan to hide my longevity. Michael’s was the fourth one I joined over the last hundred years.”
“Before that?” Yara reached around Tairin and pushed the door of her cabin open.
“I spent my first hundred years in wolf form. Egypt wasn’t a safe place for a young woman by herself. My wolf saved me from being raped, imprisoned, and like as not killed.”
“Smart of you to pick that path.” Yara kicked the door shut and crossed the small space to root in her sacks.
“Not all that smart. I was a wolf so long, I almost couldn’t find the human part of me. After all that time, it took me a week to shift, but it all worked out.” Tairin took a skirt and sweater from Yara, sliding them on. “Thank you. That book makes its own magic, doesn’t it?” She tilted her head at the book laying open on the desk.
“Yes, it does. In truth, I’m still figuring it out. In terms of the clothes, you’re welcome. Keep them as long as you need to. Hang on a sec.” She drew an embossed leather case holding her needles and thread from another sack.
Tairin’s eyes widened. “That’s lovely. Wherever did you come by it?”
“It’s one of the few things I kept from the caravan. My oldest sister laid claim to damn near everything, but she never knew about a few items, and this sewing kit was one of them.” Yara shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Over the years I’ve added thread and buttons and hooks to it. You know how it is.”
“Indeed I do.” Tairin grinned and scooped Yara into a hug. “Never walk by something you might be able to use.”
Yara hugged her back. “It’s the gypsy way.”
“No. It’s the smart way. I’m proud of my Romani heritage. And sad we’ve gotten such a bad name.”
“I feel exactly the same way.” Yara let go of her and pressed the sewing kit into her hands.
“Looking forward to getting to know you better, and I’ll return this as soon as I’m done with it.”
“No rush.” Yara followed the other woman out of her cabin, intent on joining Stewart on deck.
With a smile and a wave, Tairin vanished through a door a little farther down the corridor.
Yara had just started up the stairs when she felt Stewart’s distinctive energy moving toward her. Retreating to deck level since there wasn’t room for two in the narrow stairwell, she waited for him to reach her side.
“Done already?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I need you topside, lass. Manandan mac Llyr is less than pleased about accepting bodies killed by demons into his waters. He may well be rethinking his aid.”
She chewed her lower lip. “Is the storm back?”
“It never really left. The only clear waters are near our boat.”
“It’s days yet until we reach Scotland, isn’t it?”
“Aye. At least two.”
“What exactly did Manandan say?”
Stewart drew his brows together. “’Twas more what he dinna say. He was most clear about having had no idea our presence would draw demons.”
“So if he’d known, he’d never have promised us passage to Scotland?” Yara wanted to make certain she understood clearly.
“He dinna come out and say that, but ’twas the meaning I gleaned from him. Ye’re the one who summoned him, and ye’re who he wishes to converse with.”
She balled her hands into fists.
Stewart narrowed his eyes. “What havena ye told me?”
Yara switched to telepathy, not at all sure it would stymie a god—if Manandan were even listening. “I was the bargaining chip. He agreed to help us in exchange for me joining him. He was going to rustle up Rhiannon to cut some kind of deal.”
Stewart pounded a fist into the wall. Fury erupted from him, and he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Just when were ye going to get around to sharing that with me? Nay. Never mind. The last place ye’re going is up on deck.” He shook her again. “Back to your cabin.”
Yara jerked away from his grip, using a healthy jot of magic to break free. “You cannot tell me what to do. I’m my own person. I struck that bargain, and I’m going to where Manandan is to talk with him.” She gripped the handrails on either side of the stairs intent on a confrontation with the sea god.
Stewart ripped her hands from the railing, twisted her until she faced him, and slashed his mouth over hers, pinning her between his body and the wall. At first, she struggled, but the heat of his body and his firm mouth fused to hers woke something primal in her. Something that wanted to crawl up his body and bury the hardness jutting into her stomach deep inside.
His enticing scent rose, capturing her, and she twined her arms around him, kissing him back as if they were the last two people left in the world.
Chapter 11
Stewart had been troubled—but not surprised—about the sea god’s annoyance at having demons aboard the ship. Manandan’s displeasure had spurred his sudden change of heart, which wouldn’t become worrisome unless the god acted on it. If that happened, the roiling, heaving sea would close around them once more. Not necessarily a death sentence, but it would make their lives far more unpleasant.
He’d spent enough years kowtowing to the Celts to have experienced their fickleness in all its iterations. When you were immortal, the rules everyone else lived by flew out the window. Manandan hated demons, but that wasn’t a reason to penalize the rest of them. It wasn’t as if they’d conjured the bastards.
&nbs
p; He knew Manandan, remembered him from endless Celtic council meetings. When he’d attempted to reason with him, the god grew increasingly restive and strident, demanding Yara’s presence.
Stewart figured the god wanted Yara because her magic was what had drawn him in the first place. What a miscalculation.
Yara’s disclosure cast Manandan’s summons in an entirely different light, and Stewart reacted violently. Yara was his. His, by every god and goddess in the pantheon. He’d be damned if he’d acknowledge the sea god’s claim to her.
Never mind no words of love had passed between them. Never mind she’d have no reason to consider herself his. He’d been giving her space to adapt to her parentage—and her magic. That space had just shrunk to nothing, though. He’d face down Manandan before he’d allow the god to make off with the only woman to penetrate his barriers in hundreds of years.
What the bloody fucking hell had she been thinking to agree to such a proposal? Had she figured Rhiannon would swoop in and save her?
Hah!
Being a god outplayed being a mortal, and Rhiannon would bow to the sea god. Hell, she might well see him as a good match. Far better than her well-hidden daughter deserved.
Two pieces of truth slapped him hard. He’d lose in a direct confrontation with Manandan. And he had no idea who Yara’s father was. She might be a full-blooded god after all, and Rhiannon may have concealed her for a host of reasons he couldn’t verify.
It doesna matter what she is. I’m falling in love with her.
Fury and dismay about her bargain with the god made it hard to get words out, but he pounded a fist into the wall and sputtered, “Just when were ye going to get around to sharing that with me? Nay. Never mind. The last place ye’re going is up on deck.” He shook her. Not hard, but he needed her full attention. “Back to your cabin.”
Yara jerked away from his grip, using a healthy jot of magic to break free. “You cannot tell me what to do. I’m my own person. I struck that deal, and I’m going where Manandan is to talk with him.” She gripped the handrails on either side of the stairs intent on a confrontation with the sea god.
Anger spilled from her as she ripped away from his grasp and mounted the stairs. His normal, methodical way of approaching the world frittered to nothing, and he spun her in his arms and crushed his mouth over hers. If she’d been entranced by Manandan, he’d drive the opportunistic god from her mind.
And everything else as well until the only one in Yara’s heart, mind, and soul was him.
The sea god was a player with women stashed in every port city, the Otherworld, and goddess only knew where else. Yara had caught his eye, and he thought to add her to his stable.
Not on my watch, he willna, Stewart swore to himself.
Yara thrashed in his arms, but she wasn’t trying very hard to get away. If she’d tossed her considerable magic into the mix, he’d never have been able to hold her. Her nipples pebbled where they pressed against his chest, and she opened her mouth to his questing tongue. With his desire unleased from the iron control he usually imposed on it, his cock strained against the front of his kilt and pressed into her belly.
When she wrapped her arms around him, holding on tight, and the vanilla-pine scent of her power enveloped them, his desperation lessened a notch. She did care. You couldn’t fake the emotion sluicing from her as she clung to him.
He sucked and nibbled her lips, trading off kisses with raking his tongue inside her mouth. She sparred with it, and then explored the inside of his mouth in return. Her hands, which had been splayed across his shoulders, moved lower, leaving trails of liquid heat in their wake.
When she gripped his ass and pulled him hard against her, he groaned. Now that the floodgates were down, he wanted her with a singlemindedness that ran through him like quicksilver. His breath sped up, mingling with hers as they ground their bodies together.
The ship, heaving and rolling with renewed vigor, jarred sense into him and he tore his mouth from hers. Moving his hands from the curves of her hips, he settled them onto her shoulders. “Lass, we must do what we can to appease Manandan, but”—he leveled his gaze at her—“I willna go so far as to agree to his proposal that ye become his mistress.”
He hesitated, faltering. “Unless, ’tis your wish, but even if ye doona want me, linking your life to Manandan’s is a verra bad idea for many reasons.”
She eyed him with an unreadable expression. “Forget him. What do you want?”
Stewart sucked in a breath, his nostrils flaring. “I want you, but I also want you to be happy. Were ye overcome by Manandan’s charms? Was that why ye dinna tell him—?”
“Tell him what?” Yara broke in. “How the hell do you say no to a god? Besides, I didn’t exactly tell him yes. I asked a question, and he disappeared. Granted, I didn’t try to call him back. It would have been absurdly selfish of me to put myself before all the other people on this ship.”
“So ye werena smitten, lass?”
She smiled. “Sometimes you sound unbelievably archaic. Nay,” she aped his brogue, “I wasna smitten. Merely practical. Besides, I figured my mother wouldn’t force me into something I didn’t want. Once we were safe in Scotland, I would have addressed this.”
“’Twas a gamble. The gods may squabble like rats over a rotting corpse, but they stand together against any outsider, which is exactly what they’d consider ye to be.”
The deck pitched violently beneath them, and he scrambled for balance. “Come on. Manandan’s temper appears to be deteriorating.”
“It wasn’t his strong suit when he was in my cabin. Let me go first.”
“Nay.” Stewart gripped the handrails and hauled himself one deck up with Yara right behind him. They needed a plan, and he didn’t have one. Manandan had always been quick to anger, and he didn’t like to lose.
The deck canted hard to port; Cadr and Gregor were scrambling to get the canvas down. Vreis stood at the helm. Lines of strain carved deep into his face as he fought the wheel.
Manandan was turned away from them, facing out to sea with his hands raised. Power arced from his fingers, burning blue-white against the darkness where sea and sky merged into each other. It should still be daytime, but you couldn’t prove it by the inky darkness surrounding the ship. Water raced over the rails, retreating as it rejoined the sea.
Yara started forward, but Stewart gripped her upper arm, and then slid his hand down until their fingers laced together. The god knew they were there. No need to say anything.
Stewart rocked from foot to foot to stay upright. Perhaps the god would give him something to work with if he waited. Patience had never been one of Manandan’s virtues. In this instance, that might work in their favor.
Manandan spun. Anger shot from his black eyes. Dark hair swirled around him, falling to the middle of his back. He’d always preferred robes to trousers, and today’s was the color of old claret, sashed in deep blue.
He pointed a long-nailed index finger at Yara. “Faithless whore. I offered you a great honor, and ye throw it in my face by rutting with yon Druid. What? Ye couldna wait until I had the time to take you to my bed?”
The god marched toward them, his arm still extended. “We had a deal. A bargain. Granted, ’twas not sealed with your blood, but ye’re Rhiannon’s daughter. I assumed ye’d be an honorable wench. Not a faithless slut.”
Stewart stepped between them. “That is enough. Ye insult the woman who shall be my wife.”
A muted squawk emerged from Yara, but she didn’t follow it up by telling him he’d just presumed a whole lot without asking her.
“Wife, eh? Appears she’s a wee bit surprised by your proposal.”
“If I’m surprised, it’s because I can see you,” Yara spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady. “In my cabin, you were nothing but a disembodied voice.”
“So?” Manandan stared at her. “Surely ye’ve seen Rhiannon in all her forms.”
“In truth, I’ve never seen her at all. Not that I remembe
r, anyway. She fostered me in a gypsy caravan when I was just a babe.”
“Details.” He waved a dismissive hand and more seawater sluiced over the deck, swirling about his feet. “We had an agreement. Will ye maintain your end, or would ye prefer to leave this flimsy piece of wood masquerading as a boat to the whims of the sea?”
“I see many more options than that,” Stewart cut in smoothly. “Ye surprised the lass when ye materialized below decks. She was flustered and dinna wish to put her own needs above those of the rest of us traveling with her.”
Manandan nodded knowingly. “Indeed. All good and salient reasons for her to leave with me now. I’ll instruct the sea to see you safely across to Scotland as I promised.”
“Did you talk with my mother? With Rhiannon?” Yara asked.
“When would I have had a chance to do that?” he countered. “I’ve been here, holding the storm at bay.” He tossed his head. “Keeping my end of the bargain.”
Stewart clacked his jaws together and jumped in with both feet. “Ye just contradicted yourself.”
Manandan transferred his unnerving black eyes to Stewart. “I should kill you for that impertinence.”
“Hear me out, then decide.” Stewart squared his shoulders. “First, ye said ye could instruct the sea to guide us safely across, implying ye dinna have to be here overseeing things. Next, ye announced ye’d been holding the storm at bay. Ye canna have it both ways. Either your presence is essential. Or ’tis not.”
“Your point, Druid?” Manandan skinned his lips back from his teeth, looking annoyed.
At least he hasna called down lightning to smote me. Yet.
“My point was this.” Stewart plunged ahead. If he stopped to organize what came out of his mouth, his courage might fail. “Ye dinna believe aught stood betwixt ye and yon lass, so ye werena in any rush to leave. Your behind-the-scenes motive was to make certain the ship made port with her aboard. Now that ye recognize I have a claim where she’s concerned, ye’re anxious to spirit her away regardless of whether the ship founders.”