Lir's Lady

  LIR’S LADY

  A FADA SHAPESHIFTER STORY

  REBECCA RIVARD

  Wild Hearts Press

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Midnight

  12:10 AM

  1 AM

  1:47 AM

  Morning

  Copyright

  December 21

  Midnight

  The púca appeared in her room at midnight on the darkest night of the year.

  Isleen had dismissed her bodyguard and set a ward to keep intruders out. She was heading for bed when, one by one, all five of the fae lights floating around her room sizzled and went dark. She sent them a burst of energy. When they glowed back on, he was standing a few feet away, his handsome face impassive save for the flicker in his black eyes.

  The púca. The shapeshifter. And the man who’d once been her head bodyguard—and lover.

  She started, and then pressed her lips together. It was just like Lir to find a way past her ward.

  And she knew he’d done it deliberately, to demonstrate that even on her own island in her own compound, she couldn’t hide. Not from him.

  But she was Lady Isleen, ruler of Ireland’s powerful Ériu sun fae clan. She was damned if she’d let the man see her fear.

  “Lir.” She inclined her head. “Peace to you and yours. It’s been a long time.”

  He gazed back, tall, dark—and so bloody sexy she about swallowed her tongue.

  The last time she’d seen him, Ireland had been fighting famine and the men had been wearing swallowtail coats and top hats. Now it was the twenty-teens and he was dressed like the American rancher he’d become. A hard-bodied, long-legged rancher in boots, faded jeans and a canvas duster.

  “Peace, Isleen,” Lir returned the ritual greeting as he looked her over in turn. But unlike her, he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was checking her out. No, he took his time, his gaze sweeping deliberately down her body and then back up again.

  She instinctively amped up her glamour. When she wanted, she could bring a man to his knees.

  Lir simply gazed back steadily. But then, she’d never been able to fool him with her glamour.

  “I see you,” he said softly.

  She let the glamour fade. He gave a short, satisfied nod. He’d always hated her glamour. He liked her as she was, he said—her naked, unadorned self.

  Well, that’s what he was getting. Sun fae had a hot, fast metabolism, so even in winter, she dressed in light clothing. All she had on tonight was a tiny red nightgown that dipped low at her breasts and barely covered her bottom.

  She could almost feel his gaze as it traveled over her body. A dark, hot claiming look that sent a thrill shooting straight to her womb.

  He halted on her nipples, pushing at the tight red fabric. They hardened even more and his lips curved.

  As a púca, Lir was a special kind of fada shapeshifter, unique to the British Isles. Like other fada, he had a mix of fae, human and animal genes—and a shifter’s animal-enhanced senses. His nostrils twitched and she knew he scented her arousal.

  She took a slow breath. Aroused, yes, but the tiniest bit afraid. Because she hadn’t spoken to the man for over a century and he’d arrived on the one night of the year that her power was at its lowest ebb—and she knew bloody well that wasn’t a coincidence.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Why are you here, Lir?”

  “You don’t know?” He regarded her broodingly from beneath thick black lashes.

  She moved a shoulder. She was a Seer, but the Gift of Sight was notoriously unreliable when it came to the Seer’s own future. “I felt something,” she admitted; all week she’d been edgy, restless. “But I blamed it on the holidays.”

  “I’m here because we have some unfinished business, love.”

  “Do we?”

  He stepped closer, crowding her. “Oh, yes.”

  It was an effort, but she held her ground. “That was a long time ago, Lir.” A hundred and sixty-one turns of the sun, to be exact. Even for the fae, that was a lot of water under the bridge.

  He just stared down at her, his dark eyes unreadable. His curly black hair was still damp from the rain that had been falling all day, and he smelled of the outdoors, wild and fresh—or maybe that was just him.

  She moistened her lips. “Look, you were the one who left me, remember?” And damn if she knew why that still hurt after all this time. “Our time was up, you said, and you were off to see the world—”

  He cupped her cheek, halting her. “Isleen?” he husked. He’d acquired an American drawl but she could still hear the Irish lilt. “I saw the world. And a big, beautiful world it is. But now I’m back, and I remember how it was, the two of us. Do you?” He smoothed a thumb over her cheekbone.

  She closed her eyes. It felt so good to have him touching her. Too good.

  “Of course I do.” She removed his hand. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “You never took a mate.” His hand was at her hair now, playing with a stray lock. He’d always been fascinated by the color: copper touched with gold. “Why is that, love? Could it be you missed me?”

  “I’m not your love—and what makes you think I didn’t take a mate?” But that was a stupid question, and they both knew it.

  “You’re alone in that big bed.” He waved at the empty bed, the large, empty room. “And—” he inhaled deeply—“you don’t have the scent of a mated woman.”

  “So I don’t have a mate. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had other men.”

  He tensed and she winced inwardly. That was a low blow. But she didn’t take it back.

  Neither did he back down. “So,” he said, “I ask again—have you missed me, love?”

  She briefly closed her eyes. Why was she fighting? She’d missed the man every single day since he’d left. She’d even secretly hired another fada to find him. But the púca had disappeared as if he’d never existed.

  She’d known Lir was a proud man, but he’d been so young, barely fifty turns of the sun. He didn’t understand how the game was played. When he’d said he loved her, she’d all but patted him on the head and told him to grow up.

  So when their year and a day was up, Lir had come to her, thanked her gravely—and then told her that he was leaving. “This”—he waved a hand at the glittering, bejeweled fae lords and ladies dancing a few yards from them—“isn’t for me.”

  And the next day he was gone.

  He’d deserved something better, and he’d gotten it. He’d gone from almost nothing to become a rich, powerful man—something to do with horses and water rights in the American Southwest.

  But now he was back, and even though she’d hike ten miles barefoot in the snow rather than admit it to Lir, it had been a long time since she’d had a lover. And she’d never had another lover like him.

  “Well?” Lir cocked a single black brow. “Have you missed me?”

  She ground her teeth. “Damn you—yes.”

  He was a good half foot taller than her. She slid her hands under the canvas duster and smoothed her palms over the silky blue shirt he wore beneath. Goddess, he felt good. All lean, hard muscles and broad shoulders.

  His nostrils flared but he held still, allowing it.

  She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw. He’d shaved earlier, but already his skin was rough with the beard grain he could never quite scrape clean.

  “Yes,” she said against his throat. “I’ve missed you. Satisfied?”

  She felt him swallow. So he wasn’t as unmoved as he appeared. Her mouth curved.

  Then he muttered, “Not yet,” speared his fingers into her hair, and pulled. Not hard, but enough that she had to tilt her head back, opening her throat to him. He brought his mouth to the sens
itive skin at the base and sucked.

  Heat flashed to her core. She moaned, and his other hand came to her bottom, urging her up against him. His cock prodded her stomach.

  She wrapped a leg around his hip, rubbing herself against him. He growled and hefted her a little higher so that her naked center rubbed against his jeans. Hot, delicious friction.

  His kiss was hard, demanding. His tongue swept into her mouth and she sucked on it eagerly, drawing him deeper. Her knees wobbled and his arm locked on her, holding her steady. When he finally raised his head, she was appalled to hear herself whimper.

  She blinked and tried to regain control, but he didn’t give her a chance. In the next second, he had her down on the mattress, her feet still on the floor.

  He moved between her legs and set his hands on the mattress on either side of her head. “You’re mine, Isleen. Say it.”

  His expression was dark, but his hips rocked against her in exactly the right place. She closed her eyes with pleasure.

  “Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “The words, Isleen.” His hand came to her mound. One long finger slipped between her moist, sensitive lips, teasing her. “I want to hear the words. Say you’re mine—at least for tonight. Or I’ll leave right now.” He lifted his hand.

  “No.” Her eyes flew open and she reached for him. “Damn it, you can’t leave—”

  “Can’t I?” He drew her onto her feet. “Then you’ll come with me?” He gripped her upper arms, his gaze so intent the tiny hairs of her nape prickled.

  “What do you mean,” she asked warily, “come with you?”

  “Back to the mainland. Just you and me without all your people around.”

  “I can’t.” She shook her head, truly sorry. “I have to be here at dawn tomorrow for the Yule ritual.” The entire clan had gathered to welcome the return of the sun and its life-giving light. The winter solstice was almost as important to the sun fae as the summer solstice, and she was Ériu’s high priestess.

  “I’ll promise I’ll have you back by then.”

  She chewed her lower lip.

  “Say yes.” His voice was low, compelling. “Dawn comes late this time of year. I’ll have you back by eight o’clock. That gives you almost an hour to get ready.”

  Why not? He was right; tomorrow’s sunrise wouldn’t be until 8:50 a.m. And she was a powerful fae, not without her own defenses.

  She searched his words for possible loopholes. “Just you and me? No one else, until I’m safely back home on the island?”

  She hated to ask, but he was a púca. A trickster. And she’d had attempts on her life in the past. King Sindre of the ice fae, for instance, would love to remove her and absorb Ireland into his own territory.

  Lir’s black eyes flickered a dangerous gold, the color of his animal. He knew she was really asking if she was safe with him—and he was insulted she’d asked, which was an answer in itself.

  “Just you and me,” he replied. “I swear on the earth I sprang from. You’re safe with me, Isleen. Always. You must know I’d die rather than see you hurt.”

  Well. That was even more than she’d asked for. And he meant it. The fae were experts at twisting the truth—and the púcaí were part-fae, whatever else they had mixed in—but a flat-out lie made them violently ill.

  She rose onto her toes. “Yes,” she said against his lips. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

  12:10 AM

  Triumph crashed through Lir.

  Triumph, and relief. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Isleen said no. His plan depended on her agreement.

  But as her mouth pressed against his, he forced himself not to react, even though his animal—the wild, shapeshifting stallion—was urging him to push her down onto the bed and take her right then and there.

  “Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine—all mine.”

  Isleen rolled her eyes but obediently repeated, “I’m yours, Lir. For tonight,” she added because they both knew such a promise was a dangerous thing. “Just until dawn…” She stumbled to a halt, her witchy green eyes locked on his.

  His heart thumped. She felt it. He knew she did.

  They stared at each other. Then her whole face shuttered. It was as if she’d slammed a door on him. His stomach twisted and something bitter filled his throat.

  She muttered something about getting dressed and turned to her closet.

  He swallowed against the bitterness. Slow down, man.

  They’d been lovers for the fae year-and-a-day—which was more like a decade in human time. And Isleen had resisted it—him—for the entire ten years. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. His sun fae lady was strong, independent—and stubbornly blind to the fact they were mates, or at least, that the possibility was there.

  He shoved a hand through his damp hair and watched as she donned a leather trench coat and sexy little boots. No panties, although the coat covered her to mid-thigh.

  But he knew she was naked underneath. And she knew he knew, the bloody tease.

  Damn. At this rate he wasn’t going to be able to walk the half-mile to the marina and his boat. “Let’s go,” he growled.

  “I’ll be right there. I have to leave Devlin a message.” She crossed to a pretty satinwood desk and took out a square of fae paper.

  Devlin was an arrogant fae lord and the Ériu clan’s head of security. He’d done his damnedest to break apart Lir and Isleen all those years ago. The man didn’t want her for himself—he was Isleen’s cousin, and besides, he was gay. He just hated anyone to get too close to Isleen. Devlin was all about power, and he saw Lir as a threat.

  “He’ll only try to stop us,” Lir said.

  “I’ll set it so he won’t get the message until tomorrow morning.”

  Lir nodded curtly, although as far as he was concerned, Lord Devlin could go frig himself.

  He waited while Isleen scrawled a couple of sentences on the square of magical paper, and then set it to reveal the message to Devlin at the time she chose, seven a.m.

  “This way.” He took her hand. “I have my own boat.”

  “I could ’port us to the mainland.”

  He shook his head. Not going to happen. He was damned if he’d cede any control to her tonight, even in the matter of their transportation. Besides, teleporting took energy—especially ’porting two or more people—and this time of year, she didn’t have any energy to spare.

  “We’ll take the boat,” he told her. “It’s a cigarette boat with three souped-up engines. We’ll be on the mainland in under thirty minutes.”

  “But you hate the water.”

  He shrugged. It was true; púcaí had a liking for good old Mother Earth: solid ground, preferably with lots of fresh green grass for their horse-forms. When he’d immigrated to America sometime after the second world war, he’d hated every minute of the ten-day voyage, even though he’d had the money to travel first class, unlike the poor bastards in steerage.

  But he’d learned to adapt. Hell, he’d flown to Ireland in a fancy jet, another thing he’d avoided for years. But then, it was a lot more comfortable when you owned the jet.

  Isleen lived on the third floor of a mansion at the center of the Ériu compound. Before exiting her apartment, he reactivated the charm that had made him invisible coming in, only this time, he extended it to Isleen.

  “Don’t let go of my hand,” he told her. She had to remain in contact with him for the charm to make her invisible as well. She nodded and interlinked her fingers in his.

  They descended the first flight without passing anyone. On the next flight, they passed Devlin on his way up to the second floor. They froze and hugged the staircase wall as he glanced around suspiciously.

  Isleen caught Lir’s eye, her face alive with mirth, and he winked back. Outwitting her arrogant ass of a cousin was something of a sport to him.

  They waited, barely breathing, until Devlin gave a shake of his dark head and
continued past to the second floor landing and his own apartment.

  “This way.” Lir guided Isleen toward the side door he’d left unlocked. They waited until a nearby guard turned in the other direction and then sprinted across the wet grass.

  “Nice work.” Isleen slanted him a grin. “Where’d you get the charm?”

  “An ice fae in the Andes.”

  Her fine copper brows snapped together. She dragged him to a halt. “You didn’t tell him it was for me?”

  “If you think that,” he growled, “you don’t fucking know me at all.” He continued walking, pulling her along with him. “We bartered—a job for a job.”

  “You can’t blame me for asking.” She sped up to keep pace with his longer stride until she was practically running. “You know I have to be careful.”

  He grunted but slowed down. But yes, he knew. It was one of the reasons he’d left. Devlin had convinced Lir that he was a distraction Isleen didn’t need. After all, Sindre had nearly kidnapped Isleen on Lir’s watch—not once, but twice.

  They wended their way through the beautiful stone buildings that made up the Ériu compound. When he and Isleen had been lovers, they’d lived on the mainland, but when Ireland’s population had exploded in the 1970s, most of the clan had moved to this wild, wind-swept island off the west coast. Isleen’s Isle, the locals called it.

  Gaining access to the island had been easier than he’d expected. Only sun fae were allowed at the Yule ritual—he’d never attended one himself in the ten years he’d been Isleen’s lover—but other fae were welcome at the parties before and after the ritual. Lir had simply used his glamour to change his features and lighten his hair so that he looked like just another big blond sun fae. He’d docked his boat in the clan marina, checked in with the guards, and then headed for the tent on a nearby cliff where the festivities were just beginning.

  The first person he saw was Isleen, dressed in an emerald green party dress that hugged her high, full breasts and then nipped in at the waist before flaring into a flirty little skirt. She always had a faint shimmer to her—her skin, her hair—but when she was excited she damn near glowed.