by Silver James
God. How could she live without him? Her heart stuttered, and she swayed toward Venn, his heat reaching for her, warming her when she didn’t even know she was cold.
“What the hell, Gwyneth!”
Sumner! She’d forgotten about him, about where they were. Her whole world had narrowed to the point it held only her and Venn. Pounding so hard her chest hurt, she feared her heart would explode.
“Who the hell is this?”
Try as she might, she couldn’t school her face as she turned to Sumner. He took one look at her face and knew. Snagging her arm, he dragged her away.
Venn jumped from the stage and followed. Dickie and another no-neck thug tried to cut him off, but he plowed through them like an NFL linebacker taking out a row of cheerleaders. Gwyn shook her head, trying to warn him off, but he was having none of it. He caught up as Sumner pushed Gwyn down the hallway toward the rest rooms. At the door to the ladies’ room, he pushed her inside, closed the door behind her, and twisted a lock. She couldn’t get out.
Venn stared at Sumner. The man was a feckin’ bully, and he had half a mind to knock the prick’s head off for daring to put hands on Gwyn. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a negligent shoulder against the opposite wall.
“Listen you asshole, Gwyneth is mine. I don’t know who the hell you are and I don’t care.” Sumner dug in the front pocket of his expensive wool blend slacks and pulled out a wad of money. He peeled off five, hundred dollar bills and waved them. “Here. You want money? Take this and get the hell away from her.”
Venn laughed, a rumbling thunderclap of sound. “Ya think ye can buy me off? With that paltry sum? You don’t deserve her.” He pushed off the wall but held his distance as the bodyguards arrived. “Let Gwyn go.”
Sumner’s eyes narrowed in speculation. He waved his guards away with a flip of his hand. Opening the door, Gwyn spilled out, caught unawares. The man made no attempt to assist her. Venn caught her before she face-planted on the floor.
Still looking cocky, Sumner faced them. “I don’t blame you for sowing some wild oats, Gwyneth, but this ends now. I can’t believe you’d stoop so low.” His expression stained with disdain, he added, “The man’s a street musician, for chrissakes. He’s playing you as easily as he does that damn piano out there.”
Gwyn slipped away from him and shied away from his hand as Venn reached for her. He ignored Sumner, concerned only with her feelings.
Venn clenched and unclenched his fists to keep from throwing a punch at the other man. Pummeling him—no matter how soul-satisfying it would be—would only bring more trouble. The cops would throw him in the gaol and fecking Sumner Barrett would walk away unscathed, but for the bruises left by his fists.
“You don’t get it, you stupid bitch. He knows who you are. What you’re worth. The sonavabitch will blackmail us. He probably has pictures of you screwin’ him.” Sumner advanced on her and pinned her against the wall. “You did, didn’t you? You slept with him.”
Gwyn covered her ears. Sumner’s words lashed at her, a torrent of loathing and disdain. She trembled beneath the onslaught. Dazzling prisms blinded her—unshed tears. Riley women didn’t cry. Ever. Hadn’t her mother beaten that refrain into her all her life? His words ran together in a hateful stream, but his last statement finally registered.
“You will go through with our marriage, Gwyneth.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Venn stepped in front of her, forcing Sumner to back away.
Sumner screamed obscenities, spittle flying from his mouth. Her gentle musician stood there like a rock, her fiancé’s tsunami of condemnation crashing against his stalwart frame, shielding her.
Raising his hand, Venn silenced Sumner’s tirade. “Ye’ll not be calling the cailín such names. An honorable man doesn’t treat the woman he loves in such a way.”
Sumner turned his wrath on Venn, and Gwyn cringed.
“You’re nothing but street trash! How dare you tell me how to treat her? She’s mine. I’ll do with her as I please. You’re the one who’s filled her head with all this romantic crap. You just want her for her money.”
“And you don’t?”
The words whipped through Gwyn like lightning. He only wanted her for her money? But of course. The man was a street musician. How could she be so blind?
Stumbling, she turned to run. Could it be true? Her heart shredded. Neither of these men truly wanted her. How could they? She was everything Sumner called her and more.
“Stop. Just stop.” Her voice quivered, and she shook so hard her teeth rattled. She had to get away, go somewhere she could think. Blindly, she darted to the exit door, yanked it open, and ducked out. Escape? She wished she could just disappear. Maybe her heart wouldn’t hurt so much.
“Gwyn!” Venn’s voice reached out to snare her. She kept running. “Cailín, please, don’t go!”
The fire door screamed alarm behind her before the silence of the winter night settled around her shoulders. Head down, she started walking.
Chapter Eleven
“Get out, you sorry SOB.”
Sumner snarled the order, but Venn ignored him. He’d tried to follow Gwyn, but the prick’s thugs grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. His continued looking toward the door she’d disappeared through, terrified something would happen to her.
So wrapped up in thoughts of Gwyn, he didn’t realize Barrett had signaled for more of his cronies. A couple of the swells appeared in the hallway. One carried his duffel bag, which he dropped at Barrett’s feet. While the bodyguards pinned his arms and held him, Barrett, the feckin’ arse, lifted his foot and stomped on the bag. Wood splintered. And then all the damned nobs were doing their impression of Riverdance on his instruments.
Something died a little inside him. Music was his life. Venn struggled against the thugs holding him. The men laughed, clapping each other on their backs after pulverizing the precious instruments in his duffel.
Barrett nodded to his minions. While the two alleged bodyguards held Venn, the others rained blows on his face and stomach. When done, they tossed him out the door into the alley. Moments later, his bag landed beside him in a clatter of broken wood.
“Stay away from Gwyn. If I ever lay eyes on you again, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”
The door whispered shut, lessening the effect of his threat, not that Venn was too worried about the warning. First, he had to find Gwyn and make sure she was okay. She had to be safe. That’s all that mattered. He swiped his forearm across his face and his sleeve came away bloody. He’d find Gwyn. Assure her that Sumner Barrett was a lying shite. Before the wedding, he’d convince her that he loved her and that they belonged together.
Then he picked up his bag, and his heart twisted like a candy cane. Only love and hate swirled instead of peppermint and sugar. Heart heavy, he trudged down the alley and headed into the cold night. Out on the street, snow drifted down, the sky leaving soft, wet kisses against his skin.
Flipping up the collar of his jacket, he tightened the scarf around his neck. His wool pea coat, with his gloves shoved in the pockets, remained inside Milagro’s. He’d get it tomorrow. Tonight, he needed to find Gwyn. Talk to her. Hold her. Kiss her. His groin stirred. Yes, he would love her too, once he found her.
On the sidewalk, he tried to decide which way she would go. Then he remembered she had no coat. Did she have money tucked into the dress that hugged her curves like a lover’s embrace? Worried, he turned his head first one way and then another as if he could scent her.
Gripping his bag, like it was Barrett’s neck and he could throttle the man by sheer will alone, he turned left, heading away from the wind. With no coat, he figured Gwyn would be more likely to hide from the cold gusts than head into them. He vowed to the gods if anything happened to Gwyn he would hunt down Sumner and make him pay.
****
Gwyn stumbled along the sidewalk, all but blinded by her tears. People, fearing she was drunk or crazy, avoided he
r. At a corner, two hookers rolled their eyes.
“Rich girl gonna freeze her titties off runnin’ around in her little black dress.”
Too numb to feel the cold, she had enough presence of mind to mentally kick herself. No coat. No purse. She couldn’t catch a cab because she had no money. She was such a failure. The light changed and, while the hookers crossed the street, Gwyn stayed rooted to the corner debating her options. She could walk to her mother’s brownstone. One of the servants would let her in. She could walk to her apartment and get her super to let her in. Both places were miles away and she wore heels. She couldn’t very well walk barefooted.
Turning around, Gwyn headed back toward Milagro’s. Maybe she could sneak in the front door, grab her coat and purse from coat check, and get out again without getting caught. Ha. Her mother probably hadn’t even missed her. And Sumner would be too busy—
Oh, God. Her heart high-jumped into her throat and choked off her breath. Venn. Sumner wouldn’t have done anything to Venn with her there, but alone? There was nothing to stop him from ordering Dickie to beat up Venn. Terrified by the thought of what might have happened in her absence, she ran.
Milagro’s doorman saw her coming and had the door open as she approached. His expression remained stoic as he ushered her into the warmth of the restaurant’s foyer. Shivering, Gwyn rubbed her palms up and down her arms seeking to restore both warmth and feeling. She peeked into the restaurant. Dinner was being served. Her seat was conspicuously empty.
Bruno, the maître d’, appeared at her side. “May I be of service, Miss Riley?”
What could she say? Her face ravaged by her hysterics, she couldn’t face her guests. A laugh burbled in her throat. Her guests? She barely knew them. Her mother and Gloria had even chosen her bridesmaids.
God, she was everything Sumner proclaimed her to be. She swallowed the lump in her throat. The party carried on despite her absence. They likely didn’t even miss her.
This was supposed to be the happiest time of her life. She was a bride for goodness sake, marrying one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. But all she wanted was to stand in the subway, listening to Venn weave his magical music.
Hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she jerked as if she’d been slapped. Sumner’s gaze burned into her. He glanced pointedly to the empty chair beside him then stared once more.
He wanted her presentable and sitting next to him. Now.
“Miss Riley? Perhaps the powder room over there?” Bruno swept his hand toward a hallway she hadn’t noticed.
She nodded and slipped away to repair as much of the damage as she could.
A few moments later, the coat check girl followed her in and offered a quilted satin bag without a word. Unzipping it, Gwyn found makeup.
Five minutes later, Gwyn handed the bag back to the girl trying to ignore the sympathy in the hostess’s eyes. Relying on Mildred Riley’s training, she squared her shoulders, plastered a serene expression on her face, and entered the dining room.
Slipping around the edge of the room, she slid into the chair next to Barrett. No one commented. In fact, no one spoke to her.
Her food tasted like sawdust, and the champagne in her glass reminded her of dirty rainwater, but she ate and drank. She smiled and nodded at appropriate times. And she sat stone-faced in her chair while Sumner danced with everyone but her.
The interminable night finally ended when Sumner dropped her and her mother off at the brownstone. He didn’t kiss her good night, not even the perfunctory cheek buss she’d come to expect.
Under Mildred’s disapproving frown, she scurried into the house and up the stairs to her bedroom.
With the door closed and locked, she finally collapsed into a miserable heap. Still numb, and all cried out, she just curled up on her bed, shaking.
“Oh, Venn,” she murmured. “What have I done to you?”
Chapter Twelve
Becca MacDermot clung to her husband’s arm as the crowd swirled around the little island they formed by standing still on the sidewalk. “Why would Rory ask to meet here?”
Kieran shrugged, his gaze continuously searching the river of humanity flowing along the broad expanse in front of Grand Central Station. “No idea, darling. His text simply said it was important.”
In a former life, Rory MacDermot had been Kieran’s cousin, a man closer than a brother. Steadfast and loyal, Rory remained at Kieran’s side as they all survived the terror a renegade fae visited upon Kieran and Becca. Abhean, the fae harper had trapped her in Tir Nan Óg, the faerie Land of the Ever Young, after sending her back in time to find the Irish warrior, clann chief Ciaran MacDermot—the man her Kieran had been in the 9th century. Luckily, they’d found the words—the vow that insured they meet and love each lifetime to come.
Until she lived it, Becca would have never believed in reincarnation. Or the fae. But she’d faced down both Abhean and Manannán mac Lir, the king of Tir Nan Óg. And found her true love.
She and Kieran got a do over, but they lost Rory along the way. Until not long ago. Rory went to a time out of sync to find his heart, Delaney Burns. Thanks to Abhean’s machinations, Rory had almost lost Delaney. The damn fae spirited Rory to Tir Nan Óg, leaving Delaney in the grasp of a madman intent on murdering her. A police SWAT sniper, Rory’d found his way back to the mortal realm just in time.
Becca shivered and ducked under Kieran’s arm. He offered a hug, his gaze dropping to meet hers. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”
She tossed him a half-hearted smile. “Just that ol’ walking across my grave shiver.”
He hugged her tighter and brushed his lips across hers. “Rory and Delaney will be here soon.”
He kissed her again, lingering this time. Something teased at her subconscious and she broke the kiss.
Music drifted on the breeze, all but lost in the murmur of hundreds of conversations. Pipes? Becca twisted her head trying to identify the direction from which the music came. She blinked. Not only pipes, but Uilleann pipes. She looked up and caught Kieran’s attention.
“Do you hear it, too?”
He nodded, homing in on the sound like one of their Irish wolfhounds on the trail of a rabbit. Grasping her hand, he tugged her out into the stream, steaming through the current like a tugboat. Near the wide doors to Grand Central Station, a knot of people gathered around a busker. Clearer now, the notes played on the emotions of the crowd, weaving a tapestry full of color. She could almost see the music dancing in the air.
“No.” She stiffened.
Kieran looked at her, his brow knitted with concern. “Becca? What is it?”
“It can’t be.” She bulled her way past a few people, Kieran in her wake. “It’s not possible.”
“What are ya talkin’ about, cailín?”
She pointed, unconcerned with the lack of politeness in the gesture. “Abhean.” She spat the name. The fae harper had done nothing but muck up her life, and the lives of everyone she held dear.
Kieran studied the musician. “I don’t think so, Becca.”
Rory and his wife, Delaney, joined them. This trip to pre-Christmas New York was meant to be a vacation. She and Kieran had flown in from Ireland to meet Rory and Delaney to Christmas shop and spend time together before they all flew back to Ailfinn Castle, the home of the MacDermot clann for a traditional Christmas.
“Do you see him?” Rory sounded incredulous. And angry. One hand held Delaney’s, the other fisted at his side.
Unconvinced, Kieran shook his head. “Rory, it can’t be.”
“Oh hell yeah it can. He’s been far too quiet lately.” The man looked mad enough to chew through steel.
Becca centered her thoughts, focused only on the musician. He didn’t look like Abhean, at least not his guise the last time she’d encountered him. But at the same time, the man…did. Long blond hair, eyes the color of a muddy river, and long clever fingers dancing on the pipes’ chanter.
The music teased her, the magic in the notes lift
ing her hair then smoothing it like the hand of a lover. She stepped closer, oblivious to those around her. Kieran said her name, but Becca ignored him. She watched, listened, then gasped.
Kieran’s arms circled her waist and he pulled her back against him, anchoring her in the here and now.
“Becca? Becca, come back now.”
“It’s him.” She pulled away from Kieran and twisted so she could see him, Rory, and Delaney. “But not.”
“I don’t understand.” Delaney peeked past Becca, watching the musician.
“That’s Abhean. I’m sure of it. But he’s…” She turned her head to study the man. Her eyes widened in shock and her jaw dropped as she figured it out. “Oh my God.” Her knees turned to gelatin and she grabbed Kieran’s arm to remain standing.
“Becca? What’s wrong? Tell me.” Kieran’s expression was wreathed in concern.
He’s mortal. She said the words, but they didn’t leave her mouth. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “He’s mortal. Oh, God, Kieran. He’s human. How is that possible?”
Rory glared at her, his jaw clenched so tightly she should have been able to hear his back molars grinding into dust. “What the hell are you saying, Becca?”
“He…” She swallowed around the lump choking her throat. “He has no magic. It’s been stripped away. Without his magic, he’s…he’s human. Mortal.”
“That’s not possible.” Kieran gripped her biceps but his eyes remained on Abhean.
“It shouldn’t be. But I’m telling you, the man has no magic.” The music stopped for a moment as he changed instruments, this time picking up the Irish flute. Sprightly notes dotted the air. “His music still has a smidgen, but music always has magic. The man himself? Nothing.”
“Bloody damn time he got his due.” Kieran’s glare matched Rory’s.
Becca’s nose burned as tears tried to form. “No. You don’t understand. It’s awful and terrible and...” Words failed as sadness and horror swamped her.
The other three gaped at her, their expressions mixtures of disbelief.
“After everything he did to you? To Kieran? Hell, to me and Delaney? You can actually feel sorry for the bastard?” Rory fairly vibrated with restrained anger.