In the end, the men in Reverend Mother's tales had become creatures elusive and mysterious as the pagan gods Cuchulain had fought. But it did not matter if they were real or not, Caitlin thought with a toss of her head. It was herworld, her imaginings, and today was the one day in the year she could venture beyond the abbey's stone walls to sample the magic of that world just a little.
She rounded a tussock of heather, the trees thinning, the sun falling across her in great bars of light. Suddenly she slowed her steps, uncertain why. Did she feel the reverence in this old and holy place? Was she hoping perhaps this time the mystery of her birth might be revealed? Or was her hesitation something simpler? The knowledge that once she walked through the last archway of oaks and crossed to the great slab of stone to claim her lily, the enchantment would be over for another year?
One hand smoothed a cascade of raven locks. The other settled the folds of her simple robes about her, but no power on earth could ever tame the exhilaration in her fairy-blue eyes.
Intent on making the delight last as long as possible, Caitlin fastened her gaze on the ground, carefully placing her bare feet to avoid spring's first blossoms that scattered the seldom-used path.
Her fingers tightened in the rough cloth of her robes as she glimpsed the base of the massive stone. Slowly, she let her eyes trek up the graysurface, past intricate carvings she could not decipher. Sucking in a deep breath, she raised her gaze to the broad top of the druid altar on which her lily had always lain.
Caitlin froze. There, upon the altar, lay a man, his dark lashes pillowed against high-slashed cheekbones. Did he sleep? Or did he lie there in some sort of fairy enchantment? Part of the magical spell that had bound her from her birth?
He might have been Cuchulain, called back from the land of heroes, so powerful was the long sweep of his body. Rugged planes and hollows and corded muscles were barely disguised by the linen of his shirt and the thick wool folds of the garment wrapped around him.
Hair the sleek brown of a stag's coat was threaded with strands of fiery red that snagged the sun. The waves glowed rich and thick against the tanned planes of a face as fiercely beautiful as a peregrine's. His nose, an arrogant blade, was strong as the short sword bound at his waist, his cheekbones carved in a high, proud arch. But it was his lips that held Caitlin transfixed. Lips soft, sensual and masculine, above a stubborn jut of jaw. The mouth of a bard captured in the face of a warrior.
She swallowed hard, certain that she couldnever have her fill of gazing at this man. One glimpse, and her world had altered forever.
Was this what the lilies had promised? The mysteries that had always surrounded her? Was this her destiny?
Was he mortal at all? She trembled at the thought. Could it be possible that he was something far different? An offering from the ancient ones who had melted into the trees and the mountains, setting Ireland aglow in countless shades of green, feeding the island with the life in their souls? Could this magnificent creature be woven of that beautiful magic? For her?
The thought was terrifying in its sweetness. Yet could this encounter have any meaning besides fate? Every year, there had been a lily waiting for her on this day. Now he lay in its place.
She moved to touch the hard column of his arm, then hesitated. Such an impersonal gesture seemed a cold way to begin an enchantment. Moved by an instinct she barely understood, she leaned toward him, felt the heat of his breath against her own cheek. He was real, she thought numbly.
Closing her eyes, she pictured his awakening when she brushed the hot satin of his mouth withher own. Summoning up her last bit of courage, Caitlin lowered her lips to his.
A roar shattered the clearing, a flash of sinew and hard, grasping hands catching her in a bruising grasp. She tried to scream, but in a heartbeat, she was sprawled on her back on the stone, a crushing weight pinning her down. Caitlin struggled, a shriek rising in her throat, but a hard hand crushed down on her mouth, stifling any sound.
Balling her hand into a fist, she swung with all her might, catching her attacker on one high cheekbone, her knee driving instinctively for the vulnerable flesh between his thighs. With a grunt of surprise and pain, the beast rolled off her. "Hellcat, you all but unmanned me!" a rough voice snarled.
Her vision cleared, and she found herself staring into a face as fierce as any warrior god the druids had ever dreamed. She felt a horrible sense of loss. The sleeping hero she had found vanished forever.
Green eyes pierced her so deeply that she could not breathe. "I thought your Christian God said to love thy enemy," the man sneered with a scornful glance at her habit, "not knock him senseless."
Caitlin scrambled back, her legs so tangled in her robes she could not get to her feet. "Wh-who are you?"
"They call me Niall." His mouth hardened further still. "Niall of the Seven Betrayals."
What kind of man could he be? His very name proclaimed his infamy. Caitlin's gaze flicked to his, and she saw her revulsion register in those fierce green eyes. His lips curled in the harshest smile she had ever seen.
"You are wise to be wary of me, lady."
She hated him for sensing her fear, hated herself for letting it show, no matter how well founded that fear might be. Drawing the tattered remnants of her pride about her, she tipped her chin up in what Reverend Mother always called her fairy queen expression—one that, at the moment, made it evident she wanted nothing more than to command some minion to cut off his head.
"Did you steal my flower?" she demanded, incensed as if he had robbed the treasure ofTir naN Ogitself.
If nothing else, she had set him off balance. "Steal a flower?” he said. “What the devil for?"
"It is supposed to be there. On the druid stone."
"Let me assure you that if I ever decided to turn thief, I would not waste my time stealing an accursed flower. Why should it matter so much to you? I cannot begin to guess." His eyes flicked down the coarse homespun of her clothes, and he laid one powerful finger alongside his jaw. "Then again... perhaps I can. Meeting a lover, are you? I wonder if your abbess would approve."
"I am not! She would—" Caitlin cut off her stammering, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. She wanted to slap the smug expression off the man's face.
"So you are from the abbey. You might be of some use to me yet" Something in his voice terrified her. "I have ridden three days without sleep searching for the abbey of Saint Mary's. Could not find the accursed thing. Finally fell asleep on that rock of yours. Perhaps it was fate. Now I will not have to stumble about, searching, any longer. You can show me the way."
Caitlin stared in disbelief. This warrior was intimidating enough in a chance meeting. He was far more frightening seeking the abbey. And he wanted her to lead him to the walls?
