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“Because I suspect someone—mayhap Arawn, mayhap another of us—drew you from your time into ours. They clouded your memories and wound layer upon layer around your mind, so ye woudna ever discover your origins.”
“They figured I’d demand to be returned, eh? Or that I’d hunt down someone who could demand it on my behalf.”
“That’s my guess,” she replied.
He pushed still-wet hair away from his face. “Their son, Nessa’s and Cathbad’s, was Conchobar. Right?” At her nod, he went on. “It would be easy enough to discover if he disappeared.”
“Aye, that it would.” She looked up at him and grasped one of his wrists. “A man needs to know who he is, yet what would that buy you?”
“Probably not much, yet it would give me a place to return. Whether I am Conchobar or his son or grandspawn.”
“Ye could’ve left any time,” she said gently. “When Arawn went after you—and I suspect he did so for a reason—ye were verra young. Now ye’re a man. Arawn, Gwydion, even Ceridwen couldna harm you. Not anymore.”
He gazed at her. “The magic you drilled through, whatever was swathed around my mind, it’s gone now. I know because I feel…different. Clearer, more confident, like I could be whole again.”
“And?” She gazed back, losing herself in the magic of his eyes.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid to the floor next to her and gathered her into his arms. She nestled against him. The beat of his heart kindled longing in her blood, but she held back. He might be grateful to her, nothing more. Sex was such a minefield. What she’d done by clearing his memories and opening his heritage to him was bad enough. To compound it with sex would mean she’d truly never be welcomed by her kin again.
She could try to hide what she’d done. Maybe she’d get away with it for a while, but they’d find out eventually—about her loose tongue and the sex.
Do I care?
What have any of them ever done for me?
Angus smoothed the loose half of her hair back over her shoulders. “You have the most beautiful hair,” he murmured. “When the light plays over it, it’s like spun silver, but with golden flecks that come alive. And your eyes. One gold, the other silver. I’ve never seen the like, and gods know I’ve spent enough time among the Celts.”
“What do ye know about me?” She cuddled closer, loving the hard planes of his body against hers. Before she could think better of the idea, she wrapped her arms around him. Wet wool met her fingertips, covering the body beneath. A body she desperately wanted to see and touch and taste.
“What do I know of you?” Gentle humor underscored his words. “You’re the Moon-Mother Goddess. Because the moon descends into the sea, you also rule the tides and Caer Sidi, a magical realm to the north.”
“Long ago,” she murmured, her words nearly lost against the crook between his neck and shoulder. “All that was long ago. Men now, they doona worship gods or goddesses. ’Tis been many a long year since I’ve thought of the moon or Caer Sidi.”
“Surely your magical realm remains.” He cupped her neck in one long-fingered hand and rubbed the tense places.
“I doona know,” she said. “Magic requires belief.”
“I believe in you.” He shifted her in his arms, gazed at her for long moments before closing his mouth over hers.
She thought she should turn away. He gave her opportunity. His kiss was gentle, demanding nothing of her. He was offering her a choice. The deep loneliness she lived with every day of her immortal existence bubbled up, choking her with the specter of more days, weeks, months, and years alone.
All of them.
Or none, if she followed her heart.
She threaded her hands beneath his rough-cut mahogany hair and pushed her tongue inside his mouth.
He moaned low in his throat, and the gentleness in his kiss vanished, replaced by a need so primal and fierce, it stole her breath.
