Once Upon a Time

by Marylyle Rogers

  Years fell away with each completed circuit until Comlan gazed again at the young, dark beauty he'd first encountered on this very site so many years before: With an elated smile as bright as his again golden hair, he dropped atop a grassy carpet.

  Intoxicated by this magical experience, a laughing Amy happily tumbled into the fairy ring with the returning king of the Tuatha De Danann.

  During all the years spent in Amy's world, through the joys and sorrows of mortal life, Comlan had remained her steady, loving support. But never had he revealed what was to come after. Nor had Amy ever asked to know what price the vow she'd given would demand for the happy human lifetime shared.

  "We're young again!" Amy grinned.

  "You are." Comlan wryly nodded but added, "I have remained the same—although to blend into your world I've donned a guise of slowly advancing age."

  A slight frown marred Amy's smooth forehead as a bolt of comprehension struck. "We've returned to the day we met…"

  Comlan grinned, always pleased by his wife's sharp mind and intuition.

  That quick mind immediately leaped to those who with Comlan shared Amy's heart. "What," she anxiously asked, "does this mean for our family?"

  "Our two sons and three daughters are successful, satisfied in their world, ready to accept the passing of their parents—and physically healthy." With this answer Comlan motioned toward the figure of a blond beauty looking into the fairy ring, dazed.

  Relieved that her youngest daughter remained unchanged, Amy gazed into emerald eyes. "Lissan can't see us now, can she?"

  After the tiny shake of a golden head, she asked another question. "Because the fairy ring's concealing powers shield us or…?".

  "By walking counterclockwise around my sister's circle of flowers with me, you became what I have always been." Comlan took Amy's dainty hand and kissed its palm before lifting his mouth to brush across the soft, luscious curve of her lips.

  Amy welcomed his tantalizing caress with a fathomless love that had deepened daily, monthly, yearly. Comlan had kept his promise that "all would come right in the end." He'd given her a human lifetime of happiness and now she'd join the returning king of the Tuatha de Danann to share a nearly endless future in his bright realm.

  But first they stole another private hour of fiery pleasures and sweet delights in the fairy ring of fragrant blossom.

  If you enjoyed Once Upon a Time,

  read ON FOR AN EXCERPT OF MARYLYLE ROGERS' enchanting new romance,

  Happily Ever After.

  Prologue

  May 1, 1900

  A slight breeze teased the mass of golden curls and skirts of a white-gowned woman gazing up an Irish hillside. Lissan's attention rested on beloved parents nearing its crest and bathed in dawn's bright pastels. Her father, remarkably fit for all his years, climbed a few paces ahead and carried her fragile mother with no sign of strain.

  Clearly the time she and her older siblings—two brothers and two sisters—had been told to expect had arrived. On their twentieth birthdays each had been called by their parents into the study for a private talk during which a solemn promise was extracted. When their mother's failing health made it clear that her end was near, her children and grandchildren were to bid their last good-byes. Lord Comlan of Doncaully was then to be left in peace to carry his wife into the Irish hills unchallenged.

  Each child had given a solemn oath to neither follow nor question their father's action. The four older siblings, all married and with families of their own, had curiously discussed this odd command but none questioned the wishes of a father both loved and respected. However, Lissan took pride in an independent nature and her curiosity was not so easily quelled.

  A few days earlier when his frail wife sank into an unmistakable decline while visiting a cherished retreat, the small Irish home known as Daffy's Cottage, Lord Comlan had summoned their children to her bedside. And none of them had been surprised when during the dark hours of the previous night their father announced his intent. Though her brothers and sisters accepted this decision with deep sorrow, a decade younger than the next older child, Lissan had begged that she be permitted to accompany her parents at least so far as the first hill's summit. A frowning Lord Comlan had agreed only after his gravely ill Amy added her whispered plea.

  When her parents halted at the brow of that first hill, Lissan thought they'd paused to wish her a last farewell before sending her off to keep a promise by returning to the family waiting in the quaint, ivy-covered cottage below.

  "This can't be the last time I see you, not yet, not now..." Lissan huskily whispered as she wrapped her arms about both her father and the woman in his arms. She bent to press a kiss against her mother's papery cheek.

  "But it is either now or never," Lord Comlan firmly stated before brushing his lips across the golden silk of his youngest daughter's hair.

  Lissan's arms dropped and she started to retreat but the delicate hand of Lady Amethyst restrained her.

  Green eyes clouding against the prospect of a last farewell, Lissan glanced down to see fragile fingers affixing a beautiful broach to the tucked and daintily embroidered white dimity of her bodice.

  "Wear my amulet always and it will protect you."

  "But, Mama—" Lissan started to protest this giving of her mother's most treasured piece of jewelry—an exquisitely carved, ivory unicorn, gold-horned and rearing inside an onyx circle.

  "Hush now, my baby, my fairy-child," Lady Amethyst gently rebuked. "Do as your mama says this one last time."

  Firmly nibbling lips to block useless pleas, Lissan stepped back yet froze a short distance away, watching and waiting for her father to continue the foretold journey through Irish hills.

  The sight of small white teeth biting at a full lower lip put a sad half-smile on Comlan's mouth. She bore his own youngest sister's name along with his fair coloring and emerald eyes, but this daughter was very much her beloved mother's child.

  Lissan was surprised when, rather than continuing the journey, her father stepped into the ring of beautiful flowers encircling an ancient oak and paused.

  Her name came from this site known since the distant past as Lissan's Fairy Ring. It was her favorite place in all the world, and she had long thought that fact the likely reason her mother always called her a fairy-child.

  As a youngster Lissan had begged again and again to be told the magical tale of a dainty fairy damsel who'd fallen in love with a mortal warrior. Then, to share his life in the human world had shed her mystical powers and thus created this circle of perfect blossoms. During the magical days of childhood Lissan had often wished that fairies were real and fantasized about the wondrous adventures she would have if only she were one. Then, inevitably, she grew up…

  Lissan was horrified at having allowed foolish memories to claim her thoughts while a serious and sorrowful event loomed. Guilt joined sorrow as she closely watched her white-haired father lower his frail burden's feet to the ground. Then, holding the delicate woman close to his side, he started to walk counterclockwise around the ring of flowers. With each pace forward the woman's steps became firmer while an aura of ever brighter light wrapped about them. Lissan's eyes widened as with each completed circuit years seemed to drop away from the luminous couple.

  Abruptly, the glowing pair fell into the circle's center—and disappeared completely!

  Where were they? Lissan started forward but stopped. Clearly this was exactly what they'd warned their children was to come. But how had they done it? What did it mean? Worse yet, how could she possibly return to the small cottage and explain to her waiting siblings that their parents hadn't died but miraculously grown young again? And then vanished.

  Bewildered, Lissan sank to ground padded by thick grasses. She had long since outgrown fairy tales and didn't believe in magic. But if what she'd just seen wasn't magic, then what…? And how could she explain the impossible? The truth certainly wouldn't satisfy her scientifically minded oldest brother, Garnet, nor David
, the younger who was a well-respected clergyman. As for Opal and Pearl, the two sisters preoccupied with finding her a husband to see her as happily wed as they were, well—Lissan grimaced, green eyes darkened to a forest hue gazing morosely into the fairy ring.

  They'd think that grief had weakened her hold on sanity and driven their little sister back into her childhood's wild tales of fairy magic. No, she couldn't rationally expect them to accept the truth for truth. But neither would she lie and say their father had simply carried his gravely ill wife ever farther into the hills. But if not that, then what?

  Perhaps, Lissan's eyes narrowed. Just perhaps she would discover a rational explanation by following her parents' path? Folly, utter folly. But still—

  Yielding to the impetuous spirit that had so horrified old Beattie but always earned a secret smile from her father, Lissan rose with innate grace. She unhesitatingly moved to the very point at which her father had lowered her mother's feet and began retracing their footsteps.

  Before completing a first circuit Lissan wished she'd counted how many times her parents had gone around the circle before falling into its center, but by the time she'd made the second lap it no longer mattered. As if unseen hands were pushing from behind, she stumbled onward at an ever increasing pace until, feeling caught by centrifugal force, she was swept along at a terrifying Speed. Panicking, she summoned every shred of strength and threw herself free.

  Lissan landed on her back—hard! Even the ground's thick green padding was no protection. Her head bounced but her eyes stayed open… and widened against the flash of a double-bladed broadsword slashing straight down with deadly force!

  Chapter 1

  May 1, 1115

  Rory O'Connor silently led his band of warriors through the ebbing shadows of night and up a heavily wooded hillside. They had tracked O'Brien's bloodthirsty raiders from the burned-out shell of an aging farmer's cottage and meant to wreak vengeance upon the vile curs.

  Despite his men's desire to see the deed immediately done, Rory had convinced them of the wisdom in banking the fires of anger the better to see greater punishment inflicted with smallest cost. At his direction, they'd circled around their foes to wait in wooded shadows surrounding an ancient fairy ring in the glade at the hill's summit.

  With deceptive calm Rory stood motionless, broad back resting against a strong tree trunk while awaiting the most propitious moment to strike back. As castellan for one among a ring of fortresses belonging to his uncle, King Turlough of Connacht, he was honor bound to defend it and all its holdings against forces commanded by the too proud king of Munster.

  Bang Muirchertach of Munster had long claimed the high-kingship of all Ireland but Turlough, ever rising in power, presented a danger to that ambition. Intending to weaken his threat, men from Munster harried the borders of Connacht by terrorizing inhabitants, burning farms, and stealing precious livestock.

  A snapped twig, a muffled voice earned Rory's immediate attention. He leaned forward, peering through thick leaves and down the slope to where men climbed toward the fairy ring single file. The rising sun painted a morning sky with its brilliant shades, an appropriate backdrop for the violence erupting at Rory's signal.

  Warriors with raised swords closed in on the summit's newcomers from all sides. Gasps of surprise ending in harsh curses accompanied the fierce clash of blade meeting blade. But through the skirmish's uncounted passage of time initial taunts and blasphemous oaths settled into either grunts of exertion or groans of pain.

  Caught in a prolonged and brutal fight with the strong leader of Munster's raiders, Rory lightly whirled to avoid the downward slash of the other's broadsword… and froze as it sliced through a beautiful golden woman inexplicably tumbling at their feet.

  Lissan glimpsed blood on the terrifying blade lifting from its deadly attack. That ominous sight shook her from a state of shock and into horrified recognition of peril all around. In this glade gone eerily quiet, she was surrounded by men dressed as warriors from a distant past and apparently terror-struck to stone although armed with broadswords, spears and daggers.

  Too startled for deep fear or sensible thought, Lissan automatically pushed her skirts demurely down while struggling to sit up. She knew exactly where she'd fallen and yet this long familiar scene had changed. The ancient oak suddenly seemed half as old while dense forest and thick undergrowth covered ground where there'd never been more than lush grasses and a sprinkling of trees.

  "The White Witch—"

  Lissan's emerald eyes instantly flew up to the source of these gasped words, the stocky man still standing above while clutching a blade stained with blood as red as his hair. His epithet was echoed by many fearful voices even as their speakers whirled and fled into woodland shadows.

  Thoroughly disconcerted by these extremely odd doings and unaccountably strange surroundings, Lissan struggled to restore some measure of calm and make rational plans. She ought to return to her family waiting in the cottage below… but with everything so changed she didn't truthfully know what path would lead her there.

  A deep voice like rough velvet intruded. "Are you unharmed?"

  Further befuddled to discover herself not so alone as she'd believed, Lissan instantly responded. "Indeed, yes. Although my fall will leave bruises, it's only my pride that truly suffers."

  As the words left her mouth, Lissan glanced up to meet a penetrating blue gaze so dark as to seem all of black. It belonged to the huge figure towering above—taller than any man she knew save her father and brothers. With a powerful frame and night black hair, this stranger was stunningly handsome.

  While the maiden with sun-gilded hair gaped at him, Rory studied her so long and so well that a wild blush rosed her cheeks. She was strangely dressed in a gown of amazingly fine cloth such as he'd never seen before. But, despite courageously uptilted chin, it was clearly apprehension that widened emerald eyes of amazing clarity. Surely the White Witch couldn't, wouldn't be afraid of him?

  "Once well struck—" Rory calmly probed for a more satisfying response. "O'Brien's blade rarely fails to mortally harm its target."

  Cheeks rosy an instant earlier went pale. The broadsword! Sweet Heaven! It had well and truly struck her, as proven by the blood on its blade. But how could that be? She glanced down to a midriff so completely untouched that even the delicate cloth of her morning gown was whole and unbloodied. No wonder her attacker and the other men had fled in fear.

  "Can you account for your deliverance?"

  Lissan blinked at the man plainly growing impatient with her. Unfortunately Lissan could no more account for this miracle than she could solve the puzzle of the abrupt changes in her surroundings or her parents disappearance.

  Believing that the golden maid's silence was a refusal to respond to his oblique demand for an explanation, Rory flatly asked, "Who are you?"

  "Lissan." She was pleased that this question, at least, had a simple answer.

  "Like the fairy responsible for those forever-blooming flowers?" The sunlight gleaming over Rory's black hair as he nodded toward a circle of blossoms was the antithesis of his dark frown. As one who scoffed at superstitious tales and foolish portents, he was uncomfortable with these constant hints of otherworldly magic, particularly after this woman's extraordinary arrival.

  Lissan's attention flew to the fairy ring she could nearly swear had been trampled by fighting men but now looked fresh and untouched—just as she was, despite the broadsword's blow.

  "Yes." As she nodded, golden tresses tumbled over slender shoulders. "I was named for the fairy in that tale."

  Rory's frown deepened. "And from whence do you hail?"

  "My home is in London." Uncomfortable beneath a masculine disapproval rarely encountered, Lissan smiled winsomely at the man so unaccountably displeased by her answers;

  Rory was more thoroughly and, he was certain, justifiably annoyed with this beauty who blandly confessed what she must know he'd view as a crime even while boldly enticing him to foreg
o his own honor.

  "I assume, then—" Ice coated Rory's words. "—That you were sent by King Henry."

  Lissan rightly heard this statement for the accusation it was. These words, however, merely added another layer of confusion. After all, Queen Victoria had ruled the British Empire for several decades and there hadn't been a royal Henry in a very, very long time.

  As a first step toward solving this daunting riddle, though fearing the answer, Lissan quietly asked, "What year is this?"

  Disgust for this blatant and foolish attempt to cloud dangerous issues further deepened Rory's voice as he growled, "The year of our Lord, 1115."

  Drawing a deep breath and gazing forlornly down at the hands tightly clasped in her lap, Lissan sighed, "I have no home in this world."

  Happily Ever After— Marylyle Rogers' next romance from St. Martin's Paperbacks!