by Megan Chance
He looked away, but he heard her fumbling. He thought of the pale cream of her shoulders and quashed the image. He undid the buttons on his shirt and drew it off, wringing it out in the corner, leaving a puddle on the worn floorboards. Then he hung it on a protruding nail. He shook his hair, which didn’t do much good. It still dripped onto his shoulders. His pants he couldn’t take off because there was nothing between them and his skin, but he drew off his boots, which sucked damply at his feet. He kept his eyes averted, but he heard her every movement, her soft exasperated breaths.
He wanted to take a glance but didn’t let himself do it. Instead, he stared down at a scattering of straw, crumpling a piece in his fingers, and thought of all the ironies tumbling about him. He’d wanted her to be in love with him; she was. He’d been ordered to show her the ball seirce; he had. Everything he wanted, that his brothers wanted, had happened, and it only pushed him as far away from her as he’d known it would.
Again, he heard her mutter in frustration. He ignored it. She bit off a curse. He ignored that too.
“Diarmid, please—my laces are knotted. They’re too wet. Could you help me?”
He glanced up and knew he was in trouble. She wore only her shift and corset. Her dress and her petticoats were in a pile beside her, and she was as soaked as he was, so the shift clung to her.
She looked as tormented as he felt. “Please. Just undo them, and then you can go back to your side.”
He took a deep breath and went to her. She turned away, which didn’t help much. He worked the knots, his knuckles brushing her back, gritting his teeth against the feel of her through the muslin. Her scent came to him—grass and clay, rain and the tang of salt. He felt choked. Diarmid closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.
“Please . . . hurry.” Her voice broke.
He opened his eyes again, trying to concentrate on the knot and not the unbearable urge to touch her. Finally, he pulled the laces loose.
He couldn’t move. He felt paralyzed as she undid the hooks on the front of the corset, as she let it fall to the floor.
“There,” she said with relief. “That’s done.”
She began to step away. And then . . . he didn’t know how it happened—how did it happen?—his hands were on her waist, keeping her there, and he was bending, pressing his lips to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and her gasp bewitched him.
She turned to face him, and he saw the love in her eyes. Love and desire, along with a helplessness he understood, because he felt it too. The spell, he tried to tell himself, but it was too late. The whole world, his life, everything, pushed him to her. He could no longer struggle against it. He let himself fall into the lie of her love.
He pulled her close to kiss her. He tangled his hand in her wet hair and the inevitability of her swept him. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands burning the bare skin of his back, and he wanted to be touching her that same way. It was the only thing he could think: I want. I want. He kissed her jaw and then pressed his mouth to her pulsebeat. Her heart raced beneath his lips. So like a dream he’d once had and . . . No, don’t think it. Don’t think of anything.
Only this.
The next moment
Grace
I’d resisted him all day. It had been the hardest thing I’d ever done. But now I felt the danger of him and I didn’t care. Whatever he would be to me in the future, today he was only the one I loved. The wet cotton of my chemise bunched beneath his hands as he pulled it up to touch my skin, and it was what I wanted too—more of him. There was a part of me that whispered, Are you certain? A part that knew where we were going and was afraid. I could stop this. I should stop this.
But then my dreams filled my head, and I felt as if I were in the grip of something beyond what I could know, and my fear disappeared. Being with him was the only thing that made sense. This was how it was meant to be.
I pulled him closer, fumbling with the buttons at the waistband of his trousers.
He froze, and then he gripped my hands, stopping me. His breathing sounded harsh and labored. His face was chiseled with desire, his words raw. “I haven’t the will to fight this anymore, mo chroi. I don’t care what’s right. I can’t—” He swallowed, resting his forehead against mine. “You should tell me to stop. Tell me no.”
“I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want to say no.” I twisted my fingers loose, grazing his stomach. His breath hitched and shuddered—he trembled with the struggle to resist, and I felt a moment of wonder, of awe. This was the power I held. I couldn’t call lightning or cast spells, but this . . . I could do this to him.
“Grace.” He said my name as if it were wrenched from him, as if he were pleading for some mercy only I could give. “Be sure. We can’t take this back.”
I looked up at him, hot with embarrassment and need and desire as I said the words I knew I had to say. “I am sure. This is what I want. But I don’t want there to be—a child. I’ve heard there are . . . there are ways. Do you . . . do you know how . . .”
His breath released hard. “Aye, mo chroi.”
He kissed me, and it was gentle and sweet before it grew passionate again. After that, there was no hesitation. He pulled me to our bed of straw, and then there was nothing between us, not clothing, not the future. Though it hurt—deep and sharp enough that I cried out—I didn’t let him stop. When he tried, I held him and whispered, “This is ours, Diarmid. It might be the only thing left to us. Don’t take it away.”
It was worth the pain. I loved him, and I loved being this close to him, and with every moment, my connection to him strengthened; a circle finally closed, an electricity that flashed and fused and held, filling me, completing me. The feeling didn’t go away even when it was over and I lay cradled in his arms. I understood with a start that this was what had been waiting for me on Governors Island. This was what I’d been sent here to find.
The storm had stopped. The sun streamed through the slats near the roof, evaporating the rain into steam. I felt strong, vibrant, and alive. There was music singing in my head, the music of the water and the sun and the birds and the beat of his heart, the whole world kneeling at my doorstep, offering itself to me. Here I am—do with me what you will.
I said, “I feel different.”
Diarmid said ruefully, “’Twasn’t good this time for you, I know.” Then he grinned. “But it gets better with practice, I promise.”
I felt the heat of a blush, but I levered myself up on one elbow to look into his deep-blue eyes. “That’s not what I mean. I feel as if there’s something more to me. I don’t know how to describe it.”
He traced up my arm, a touch that made me shiver—no, it was something much more than that. This shiver reached deep inside of me and pulled, burning the way it always did when he touched me, when he kissed me, as if doors were opening, light flooding in.
I said, “I think you have something to do with it.”
“I’m told I have that effect.”
I walked my fingers down his sternum, till I reached the muscles of his stomach, and when he gasped, I smiled. “I guess I have an effect too.”
“You always have.”
“That’s what I mean. I feel . . . powerful when I’m with you. Even more so now. More like a veleda. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t even know what it means,” he said.
“At Battle Annie’s, it was how I knew the apple wasn’t glamoured. It was like a . . . a song, but it was broken and faint and I couldn’t hear it well. It was how I knew to trust Deirdre too. But the song is stronger now. Louder. It’s as if . . . as if it was waiting for you. I hate even to say that. It’ll just make you more arrogant than you already are.”
His expression grew wistful. “I hope it does make you more powerful. ’Twould make me feel better to think there was some good to come of this.”
“Some go
od?”
“This isn’t what’s best for you, Grace. We both know it. You don’t belong to me, and you’re bespelled and . . . and I meant to protect you, from me as much as anything. I shouldn’t have lost control. I should have been able to fight it.”
“Don’t regret this. Please. I don’t. I love you.”
He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing my lips. “’Tisn’t fair. You said that once, and it’s true. A mean-spirited gift, you said. It makes a lass do what she might not otherwise. You can’t tell me that you ever considered lying with me before yesterday.”
“Considered it? Oh my—” I took a deep, steadying breath. “I dreamed about it. I thought of it whenever I was with you. And sometimes—oh, all right, often—when I wasn’t.”
I saw the doubt in his eyes, but there was hope there too.
“I did.” I leaned over him, my hair falling to curtain our faces from the rest of the world. “And I fought it. I’ve been afraid of what I feel for you, but this is what we were meant to be to each other. You feel it too. I know you do.”
“I feel it,” he said simply. “But the lovespot would make you feel that, Grace. And one day the feeling will be gone, and you’ll hate me for today.”
“It won’t be gone, because it’s real. It’s the most real thing I’ve ever felt. It’s part of who I am now. It belongs to me. I promise you, Diarmid Ua Duibhne, I will never regret this.”
He searched my face. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but he must have found it, because the sorrow in his eyes melted away; they darkened with desire. “Then I suppose I should do what I can to make certain you don’t.” He pulled me down to brand me with a kiss that left me breathless.
And he was right. It did get better with practice.
I started awake, sweating, my heart pounding.
“What is it?” Diarmid murmured sleepily.
“Something’s wrong.”
He sat up, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. “What d’you mean?”
“There’s something . . . I don’t know. We need to go back.”
“Back?”
“To the city.” I grabbed my chemise. “Hurry. We need to hurry—”
He touched my arm. “You had a vision? What was it?”
“No. No vision. I just felt it. I know it. There’s trouble. They need us.”
“Grace, we can’t go rushing back. Not without something more than a feeling. Finn will—”
“I don’t care about Finn! They need us. Something’s happened.”
“Are you sure?” he asked carefully. “You’re sure this feeling is about the Fianna and not about something else? Not just a bad dream? Not about the Fomori or the sidhe?”
“I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s only—” I threw aside my chemise and put my hand to my head, trying to still the panic coming from . . . somewhere. “Oh, I don’t know!”
“Come now, lay down again.” He tugged gently at my shoulder. “Close your eyes. See what comes to you.”
I followed his directions. His fingers played over my skin, stroking, and I closed my eyes and focused on his touch. Gradually, the panic eased, the air was clear again, and there was . . . nothing.
“Well?” he asked after a moment.
“It’s gone.” I opened my eyes. “Whatever it was, it’s gone.”
“’Twas a dream then,” he said, but there was worry in his voice. Still, he wrapped me in his arms, and I fell asleep again, listening to his breathing.
I didn’t dream, but my mind felt wide-open, and I heard my brother’s voice, as clearly as if he stood beside me: You’ve done it, Grace.
When I woke the next morning, those words lingered, along with a sense that something else had changed, something more than just the shift I sensed in myself. When Diarmid stirred, I said, “I had the strangest dream.”
“You mean what woke you last night? Or something else?”
“Something else.”
“No longer thinking we should go back?”
“I don’t feel that anymore, but . . . things have changed.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing to do but keep going until you have a better sense of it. I’ve thought of a way to get into Fort Jay, but it won’t be easy.”
“Fort Jay?”
He swept his hand through his hair. “To find your clue to the archdruid. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. I knew I was good, but—”
I hit him lightly. “No, I haven’t forgotten. But we don’t need to keep looking. I’ve already found what I was sent here for—it was you.”
“Me? But I’ve been with you this whole time.”
“Yes, but—” I struggled to explain. “I told you, I feel stronger since we . . . since yesterday. The power of the veleda. I think it was you that I needed.”
“That’s what Aidan said the night of the raid on the tenement. He said you needed me.”
“How did he know that?”
Diarmid shrugged. “How does he know anything? He’s playing with lightning—I’m thinking ’tis best not to question him.”
“Last night, it was as if—”
“Sssh.” Diarmid put up his hand.
I heard the sound almost the same moment. The scrape of stone against a hull. Close, on the beach just below.
Diarmid grabbed his trousers and his daggers from the floor and went to the door, cracking it open, wincing as it creaked. Now I heard voices—loud enough to be heard on the sea air, not loud enough to understand.
Diarmid pulled on his trousers and shoved his feet into his boots. He mouthed, Stay here, and I nodded, but my panic from last night returned.
He was already out the door. I grabbed my chemise, sliding it over my head. I looked about for a weapon of my own, and saw the broken oars. I grabbed one and stood near the door, prepared to whack anyone who came through. I felt I waited there forever, my heart pounding, until I heard a scuffle, a loud squeak. “I mean no harm! I’m just lookin’ around!”
I recognized the voice. Miles.
But my dread didn’t ease. Diarmid said, “I thought I taught you better than that. I shouldn’t have been able to sneak up on you.”
“I didn’t think to be attacked on a beach!”
Their voices lowered so I couldn’t hear the rest. I relaxed my hold on the oar. Diarmid called, “Grace, it’s only Miles,” and soon after, they came inside.
Miles smiled at me. “Hey, Gracie. ’Tis good to see you.”
I was so uneasy that it wasn’t until Diarmid raised his brow that I realized I was still only wearing my chemise, and Miles was staring at me with unabashed admiration.
“Turn around, lad,” Diarmid said, cuffing him good-naturedly before he grabbed my gown from where we’d hung it to dry.
Miles grinned sheepishly and turned his back to me. Diarmid gave me my corset and petticoats, too, taking the oar from my hands. “Good thinking,” he said, but even that didn’t warm me.
“So what brings you here, lad?” Diarmid asked. I heard the edge in his voice.
The laces of my corset were still too damp for me to tighten well; I had to turn to Diarmid to do it. I wished only to be rid of it, but the dress wouldn’t fit otherwise.
Miles said, “We’ve word from Finn. Things’re bad in the city. The police are comin’ down hard. The protest over on Bleecker Street yesterday got . . . out of hand. We think the police knew of it ahead of time.”
I pulled on my dress.
“And?” Diarmid asked.
“’Twas bad. A thunderstorm in the middle of it, and lightning killed a couple of people. Finn called for retreat, but . . .”
“But what?”
“They caught Oscar.”
This was it, then, the urgency I’d fe
lt, the panic. Oscar, captured by the police. Diarmid looked as if his world had just crumpled before his eyes.
“Oscar? But when? How?”
“They got him during the fight. Took a whole slew of ’em to get him into the Black Maria.”
The Black Maria. Even I knew the slang term for the police carriage used to transport prisoners.
“Yesterday,” Diarmid said. “Then we haven’t much time. Let me get my things—”
“You’re not to come back,” Miles said. “Finn just wanted you to know. Hugh will tell you—he’s waitin’ in the boat below. He’s the one who got the message. He says Finn wants you to stay out of it and keep her safe.”
“But they’ll need me for this. Oscar’s the best of us. Without him, they’re crippled.”
“You can’t,” I said. “Finn doesn’t want you there.”
“It won’t take long. A few days only. Hugh can take me to the city, and Miles will stay here with you until I get back.”
“Finn said to stay out of it.”
His eyes flashed. “I can’t let them do this alone. This is Oscar, Grace.”
“You’ll only make things worse,” I insisted. I was afraid for him. He had no concern for his own safety. He would plunge into peril without a second thought. He might be a Fianna warrior, but he wasn’t invincible. I’d seen those fights. And my dreams—were they premonitions or memories? I’d seen bruises and sweat, screaming and blood, panic and terror. “They’ll have made plans without you. No one’s going to let him just languish in jail—”
“He won’t be in jail. They’ve got him. Your precious Patrick and the Brotherhood.”
“Then he’s safe enough. Patrick won’t hurt him.”
“Patrick won’t, no. But the others . . .” Diarmid gave me a warning glance. Miles knew nothing of the Fomori.
I remembered the dinner I’d attended. Lot’s kindness, and Miogach’s. The way they’d promised to save me. Patrick’s assurances that they were reasonable, that they could be controlled. That they meant to help. This was not the ancient world of legend. There were laws and juries and judges. They couldn’t just throw a man into prison and torture him, could they? No, they wouldn’t. “They won’t hurt him. Finn told you to stay with me. He told you to stay.”