The O'Madden: A Novella (The Celtic Legends Series) by Lisa Ann Verge Page B
Authors: Lisa Ann Verge
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communion and a strange sort of yearning which made her throat go dry. Suddenly she understood why the priests turned a blind eye to the doings on the hills of Ireland on All Hallows’ Eve. It was an ancient, pagan ceremony, full of a licentiousness that the people dared not confess come Sunday, but there was power here. It was an evening, so Glenna told her, when the veils between this world and the Otherworld thinned to mist.
The man nudged the ale-bladder into his companion’s arms. There was no hiding the power of his stride as he made his way through the heat and the throng. Excitement set her body trembling. The man was all muscle swelling beneath the tight sleeves of his tunic and the wool of his hose. She was not ignorant of male beauty. She’d seen many men sweating in their braies in the fields in the heat of summer, their naked backs slick and gleaming with sweat. But none so tall, none so straight-backed, none as lean as this man slowing to a stop before her.
He bore a man’ s face, well-used. His nose sloped crooked, as if he’d broken it more than once. A scar cut a path through one brow and another through the stubble on his chin. Blue eyes gleamed at her. The skin around them crinkled as he disarmed her with a smile as boyish as that of any of the young men hurtling through the fire.
“I was just warned,” the giant rumbled, “about creatures like you.”
Her skin tingled, for he had a deep voice that brought to mind lazy mornings and entwined limbs.
“Beware of fairy-women,” he said, capturing a tress of her hair risen aloft by the wind. “On this night, they slip between the veils to bewitch human men.”
His words brought a flush of pleasure to cheeks, a flush that made her feel as foolish as someone half her age. This was a common enough thing to say on this night. Fairy-women were said to be beautiful, lissome creatures, and she supposed many a young man used that knowledge to find his way into a girl’s good graces. Yet she felt her smile widen anyway. The words may be common, but she’d never heard the likes of them before.
“You had to be warned?” Her voice rushed husky through her throat. “I thought every man in Ireland would know such a thing.”
“ Where I come from, this night is for mischief, not fires like this in the midnight woods.” He stretched her hair across the back of his hand and then let it slip out of his grip like unfurling silk. “It’s a night for young masked men to hurl themselves through the dark streets and frighten any who dare to linger about.”
“We’ll have enough of that, too.” She tilted her head, as she’d seen a dozen young women do when flirting with their men. “You’ve no fires where you come from?”
“None like this one.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what strange part of Ireland he came from that didn’t celebrate All Hallows’ Eve with fires—and then she stopped herself. She didn’t really want to know whence he came. He spoke a fine Irish Gaelic, not with the musical lilt of her own clan, but a true, easy Irish nonetheless. In the end, she supposed it would be best that they know as little about one another as possible.
She swung up the hollowed-out turnip lantern she clutched by a leather thong. “Did no one give you a lantern?”
“Who needs a lantern with that moon and this fire?”
“You’ll need it to ward off the dead who also walk this night.”
“I’ll share yours.”
The air she sucked into her lungs rushed tingling through her body. “Then it’s a bit of luck for you that you found me.”
“ I was told there’s magic in this night, and now I know it’s true.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “Don’t you have a tongue full of pretty words.”
“What’s closest to the heart is closest to the lips.”
“Aye,” she mused, “and ale-talk gets weaker with the night air.”
“You wound me, woman.” He clutched his breast with a work-hardened hand. “Haven’t you
The man nudged the ale-bladder into his companion’s arms. There was no hiding the power of his stride as he made his way through the heat and the throng. Excitement set her body trembling. The man was all muscle swelling beneath the tight sleeves of his tunic and the wool of his hose. She was not ignorant of male beauty. She’d seen many men sweating in their braies in the fields in the heat of summer, their naked backs slick and gleaming with sweat. But none so tall, none so straight-backed, none as lean as this man slowing to a stop before her.
He bore a man’ s face, well-used. His nose sloped crooked, as if he’d broken it more than once. A scar cut a path through one brow and another through the stubble on his chin. Blue eyes gleamed at her. The skin around them crinkled as he disarmed her with a smile as boyish as that of any of the young men hurtling through the fire.
“I was just warned,” the giant rumbled, “about creatures like you.”
Her skin tingled, for he had a deep voice that brought to mind lazy mornings and entwined limbs.
“Beware of fairy-women,” he said, capturing a tress of her hair risen aloft by the wind. “On this night, they slip between the veils to bewitch human men.”
His words brought a flush of pleasure to cheeks, a flush that made her feel as foolish as someone half her age. This was a common enough thing to say on this night. Fairy-women were said to be beautiful, lissome creatures, and she supposed many a young man used that knowledge to find his way into a girl’s good graces. Yet she felt her smile widen anyway. The words may be common, but she’d never heard the likes of them before.
“You had to be warned?” Her voice rushed husky through her throat. “I thought every man in Ireland would know such a thing.”
“ Where I come from, this night is for mischief, not fires like this in the midnight woods.” He stretched her hair across the back of his hand and then let it slip out of his grip like unfurling silk. “It’s a night for young masked men to hurl themselves through the dark streets and frighten any who dare to linger about.”
“We’ll have enough of that, too.” She tilted her head, as she’d seen a dozen young women do when flirting with their men. “You’ve no fires where you come from?”
“None like this one.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what strange part of Ireland he came from that didn’t celebrate All Hallows’ Eve with fires—and then she stopped herself. She didn’t really want to know whence he came. He spoke a fine Irish Gaelic, not with the musical lilt of her own clan, but a true, easy Irish nonetheless. In the end, she supposed it would be best that they know as little about one another as possible.
She swung up the hollowed-out turnip lantern she clutched by a leather thong. “Did no one give you a lantern?”
“Who needs a lantern with that moon and this fire?”
“You’ll need it to ward off the dead who also walk this night.”
“I’ll share yours.”
The air she sucked into her lungs rushed tingling through her body. “Then it’s a bit of luck for you that you found me.”
“ I was told there’s magic in this night, and now I know it’s true.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “Don’t you have a tongue full of pretty words.”
“What’s closest to the heart is closest to the lips.”
“Aye,” she mused, “and ale-talk gets weaker with the night air.”
“You wound me, woman.” He clutched his breast with a work-hardened hand. “Haven’t you
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