Faerie Faith Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Faerie Faith

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Praise for Silver James

  “[FAERIE FATE] is a wonderful mix of adventure and humor, with an unforgettable heroine who follows the voices in her head and travels back to a time of handfasting, dreamy Irish men and clan wars. Although Ciaran and his Irish ways are not new to romance novels, Becca is extremely humorous and fun, and makes the reader laugh out loud as she waltzes into yesteryear.”

  ~Romantic Times Magazine (4 Stars)

  ~*~

  “I recommend [FAERIE FIRE] to all who believe in Faery, and to those that want to believe, this will send you in the right direction. Well Done!”

  ~Siren Book Reviews

  ~*~

  “FAERIE FOOL is a well written story rich with detail, humor and passion, family, and fate. Silver James hooked me with her well-developed characters, intense plot lines and the ability to heat up the pages with the written word! I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes a bit of Irish lore or some fate tampering Fae!”

  ~Romancing the Book

  Faerie Faith

  by

  Silver James

  Twelve Brides of Christmas Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Faerie Faith

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Silver James

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-527-2

  Twelve Brides of Christmas Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This one is for the fans of my Irish fae

  who have waited for Abhean’s story.

  I hope I got it right.

  A huge thanks to Ms. Editor 1.0 (Frances Sevilla)

  for asking me to write this story,

  and to my family—especially my dad,

  who told me it was okay to listen to the voices in my head.

  May you always be happy in Tir Nan Óg, Da.

  Prologue

  The fae harper stood in the circle of standing stones, his hands hanging limply at his side. No breath of air stirred the grass or flowers. Even the leaves on the trees in the forest held silent. A golden red sun painted the misty blue mountains deep violet, and the brilliant blue of the sky could blind a man if he stared too long.

  He ignored the trudging footsteps behind him and said nothing for long minutes.

  “You win.” Like dry leaves tumbling before the winter wind, he admitted defeat.

  “No, Harper.” Manannán mac Lir appeared at his side. “This was not a contest between us, no matter how much you wished to make it so. We have no feud.”

  He jerked his head at the king’s statement, but he didn’t react to the chastisement. He’d been fighting with the king of Tir Nan Óg his entire life. He focused on the cause of their latest argument.

  “The mortals made the binding?”

  “They did, aye.”

  “Then you win.”

  “No. Love wins.”

  “Ha! Love? What know yee of love’s folly, old man?”

  “More than you, Harper. You sing it into being with a heart closed and dark. You pervert it and twist it and use it to punish. But who do you penalize? The mortals? Nay. They find their way despite our interference. You wish to strike at me, but for a millennium, you have failed.”

  The younger fae whirled, his eyes narrowed and gleaming with feral reds and yellows. “I will beat you.”

  He ignored the look of profound sadness on Manannán’s face.

  “No, son. You will not. I know your heart far better than you yourself.”

  He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out.

  Before he could move, Manannán cupped his cheeks in his massive hands.

  “I know what you seek. I know your hidden desires. I am the King of Tir Nan Óg. I am the one who brought you here. Granted, perhaps for reasons far more selfish than I wished to admit at the time.” Manannán pulled him closer and pressed lips to his forehead. “I could not bear to be apart from my son.”

  The harper forced his knees to lock so he could remain standing, stiff and aloof. He would not listen, would not be tricked by the king’s lies.

  “Love, my son, is a gift—one that will set you free. I give it now to you.”

  Clouds bloomed against that dazzling blue sky, and the wind whipped around the two men before chasing through the standing stones, making them sing.

  The harper listened, for this was a song he’d not heard before. Caught in the web of music, his heart expanded until he thought it would burst, even as it felt like claws shredded it to pieces.

  “Go yee, Abhean, Harper of the Tuatha de Danaan, Prince of Tir Nan Óg, son of Manannán mac Lir, Go yee to the mortal realm until yee find the other half of your heart.”

  Lightning struck the altar stone sending up a shower of sparks, and Abhean, deafened by the crescendo of thunder that followed, stared at the man he’d hated all his life. Mist—swirling, gray and black—enveloped him in a whirlwind. The hands cupping his face slipped away, and he spun into the vortex, his last words torn from his throat to be lost in the void.

  “Father! No!”

  Chapter One

  “Do not dawdle, Gwyneth.”

  Gwyneth Riley winced. Her mother’s words reminded her how hopeless her situation remained. The bridal consultant laced up the back of the dress, the stays so tight Gwyn couldn’t breathe deeply enough for a proper sigh. Instead, she blew a soft snort out her nose and muttered, “You’re the one who insisted on this dress.”

  “I heard that, young lady. Now come out of there so I can make sure it fits properly. We have a great deal to accomplish today. Your wedding is only a month away.”

  “Yeah, don’t remind me.” She mouthed the words so her mother’s preternaturally sharp hearing didn’t pick up on her discontent.

  Gwyn stumbled out, tripping over the hem when the wide skirts bunched around her legs as she squeezed through the narrow entrance. With the help of the consultant, she stepped up onto the dais and stood still while the woman fussed with the fall of the acres of material that made up the skirt and train.

  She waited stoically, eyes closed, expression schooled. Her mother would only lash out if Gwyn revealed how much she loathed the dress. The fact she hated her fiancé did nothing to mitigate things.

  Mildred Riley circled her like a shark looking for chum. “S
umner will love it.”

  Of course he would. Sumner Barrett was a man of impeccable tastes—according to Mildred and the society pages. Gwyn knew him as an egotistical bore with a mean streak. Why in heaven’s name he decided to marry her was beyond comprehension.

  “You’ll make a beautiful Christmas bride.” Her mother’s cell phone played Vivaldi’s “Spring,” and she turned away to take the call.

  “It looks like a goose-down pillow exploded on me.” She glanced at the hem of the gown. “And then I stepped on a freaking arctic fox.”

  The gown was hideous. The satin fabric had a stamped snowflake pattern. The hem and train were edged in ermine or fox or some poor little creature’s fur. The bodice, sleeves, and attached hood were laced with white feathers. Gwyn concentrated on breathing and glanced at the consultant.

  “I can’t breathe. Will you loosen the laces?”

  The woman gulped. “I can’t. Your mother will notice. You really must lose some weight before the wedding, Miss Riley.”

  Gwyn wanted to laugh but knew her mirth would tip too quickly into hysterics. Mildred had put her on a diet at the ripe old age of three. She’d been on the weight loss yo-yo ever since. For a brief moment, she considered rebellion—by eating every chocolate and almond bar, every ice cream sundae, and double bacon cheeseburger she could stuff in her mouth before the wedding. Except her mother would lock her in her childhood room and starve her until she could fit this stupid dress.

  She just wanted to escape. She had a hot romance novel and a cold bottle of wine waiting at her apartment. In preparation, she furrowed her forehead and curled her lips into a drooping frown. She’d get the wrinkle lecture but didn’t care. By the time Mildred returned, Gwyn had paled, looking truly ill.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you having one of your migraines? For goodness sake, Gwyneth, you are as weak as your father.”

  Gwyn stiffened at the accusation. Jonathon Riley had been the strongest person she’d ever known. And he’d loved her before his death. She didn’t have to wear a size four. She could make a B on a report card. She could cry on his shoulder when her feelings got hurt. He’d laughed loudly and often, and she had adored him. Sumner wasn’t even a pale shadow of the man her father had been.

  “Yes, it’s a migraine, Mother. I can’t breathe in this dress. I want to go home.”

  Defiance won out over caution. “I’m done. You don’t need me for anything about this wedding. You and Gloria and Sumner have it all planned out. What I want doesn’t matter. I’m done.”

  Heads turned and Mildred moved to shush her. That so wasn’t happening, now that she was on a roll. “I don’t want to wear this freaky dress. And I don’t want to marry Sumner.”

  Storming into the dressing room she called over her shoulder. “Somebody better get me out of this dress before I start ripping it to pieces.”

  Shedding the gown, Gwyn dressed quickly, gathered her coat and messenger bag, and ducked out. With luck on her side, she could escape and get home to her apartment with no one the wiser.

  ****

  Venn leaned against the granite wall at his back, debating which instrument to play. Christmas crowds spilled across the sidewalks. He wanted to catch their attention long enough to toss money into his copper bowl but not stay so long they blocked the sidewalk. He’d already had one run-in with the cops and couldn’t afford another one so early in the day.

  Snow drifted in lazy spirals from dark gray skies and pedestrians picked up their pace. He considered. Something to slow them down, to warm their hearts. He withdrew his Irish flute from the bag at his feet, blew on chilled fingers to warm them up, and began to play.

  Like magic, the sweet notes had the intended effect. People slowed, tilting their heads to listen a moment. Men reached into their pockets for coins. Women opened pocketbooks and showered him with bills. He shifted seamlessly into a more familiar carol. People smiled, nodding along with the tune. A little girl darted forward and put a twenty-dollar bill in the pot near his feet. He flashed a dimpled smile and a wink, which had far more effect on the child’s mother.

  Venn launched into “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and the crowd sang along, acting out the verses. He grinned when women stepped up to do a jig—nine ladies dancing. Before ten men joined in, a commotion near the street captured his attention, and he stopped playing. A man gripped a girl’s arm trying to force her into a car. She fought and yelled while bystanders tucked their chins and hurried away. So much for making rent today. He shoved the bowl and money into his bag and prepared to decamp.

  Glancing up, he caught sight of the girl’s face. And froze. A sprinkling of freckles stood in stark relief against her pale skin. Hair the color of an Irish sunset escaped from the twisted bun on the top of her head. Eyes as blue as Galway Bay shimmered with tears. Then he realized she was older than she first appeared—and certainly didn’t have the body of a girl. This was a woman in full bloom.

  “Here now. Turn her loose.” Venn spoke without thinking.

  The man spun around but retained his hold on the woman. “Butt out, asshole.”

  “I’ll not be doing so. Let the cailín go.”

  The man raised his fist. “And I’m tellin’ you, this is none of yer business. Now get lost.”

  Venn’s gaze flicked to the woman. The pleading in her eyes shifted something inside him. Did she want him to leave, or stay to protect her? One corner of his mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. What she wanted didn’t particularly matter. He desired her—for the time being. Not to mention the man had royally pissed him off.

  The guy made two mistakes—he let go of the woman and he took a swing at Venn. Taking advantage of both actions, Venn decked him with a well-placed roundhouse to the jaw followed by his arm encircling the woman’s shoulders and drawing her to his side.

  “Are ya all right then, cailín?”

  She stared up at him with big doe eyes and slowly nodded. “I need to get away,” she whispered.

  “Aye, that we do.”

  The driver of the car scrambled out and a crowd once again gathered, drawn to the drama of a fistfight. Venn dodged through the onlookers, keeping the woman tucked close beside him. He snagged his duffel bag and dashed around the corner, urging her to keep up with him. At the end of the block, he steered her into the crosswalk, merging with the group of pedestrians surging across the street. Weaving in and out of slower walkers, he guided her to the subway entrance and ducked inside.

  When she looked befuddled by the turnstile, he swiped his card and pushed her through. A second swipe and he followed close behind. On the other side, he crowded her, pushing deeper into the bowels of the subway station. Worried they’d been followed, Venn bullied the woman onto the first train.

  She sank down on a bench, and he stood in front of her, holding onto a strap still shielding her with his body. The woman wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes downcast. Her cheeks flushed, hiding her freckles, and her brow furrowed. Concentration? Fear? Pain? What would put such an expression on the lovely cailín’s face?

  The subway train swayed around a curve and slowed as it pulled into the next station. She prepared to stand, but Venn shook his head. “Next stop, luv. We’ll change trains there.”

  Lush lashes shadowed her cheeks for a moment before she met his gaze. Her brow furrowed more deeply before she relaxed.

  “Thank you.”

  He tossed a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t like t’see a woman manhandled. Who was he? Boyfriend?”

  Her eyes widened, and he wanted to dive into their sparkling blue depths. “Oh, no. That was Dickie. He’s Sumner’s bodyguard.”

  Venn shifted uneasily. “Who’s this Sumner that he needs a bodyguard?”

  She sighed, lowering her eyes and voice. “I’m Gwyneth Riley.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she glanced up as if he should know her name. He didn’t but supplied his own. “Venn McLyre.”

  “You’re Scottish?”

  He
snorted. “Nay. I’m a son of Eire.”

  She looked confused for a moment then her expression cleared. “Oh. You’re Irish.”

  “Aye.”

  That brought a smile and a hint of dimple before she grew serious again. “My fiancé is Sumner Barrett.”

  He shook his head to cover the clutch in his chest. Fiancé? That meant she belonged to another. The thought deflated him. The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t say why.

  “Sumner and his family…my family…we’re…” She lowered her gaze again.

  And there’s the rub, he thought. “Yer rich.” His voice sounded gruffer than he’d intended. She wouldn’t look at an itinerant street musician. Even as logic intruded, something dark and possessive coiled in his gut. He wanted this woman.

  “Yes.” She swallowed the word like it was distasteful. “I…the wedding…it’s right before Christmas.”

  Her demeanor pulled him from his angry thoughts. He studied her, easy enough to do without being caught, since she still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “I don’t want to marry him.”

  Chapter Two

  The admission, delivered breathlessly, made her cringe. What was she thinking? Gwyn had to marry Sumner, and she might as well resign herself to that fact. Her mother wouldn’t stand for a scandal, and Sumner’s ego had prompted him more than once to declare he’d have her or no one would.

  She chanced a glance at her rescuer. He watched her, his face impassive but his hazel eyes alive with some spark in their depths—a glitter that sent shivers skittering along her spine.

  “Then why are ya marryin’ the man?”

  “You don’t understand.” She grimaced at how whiny she sounded.

  “Enlighten me.”

  The subway rumbled into the station, and her escort grasped her arm, pulling her up. He scanned the station then nudged her out at the last minute. When she arched a brow in question, he explained. “Wanted to be sure we weren’t followed or that bloody bodyguard wasn’t waitin’ on the platform for us.”

  The train whooshed away, and the crowd surged toward the exit. Gwyn followed them, but Venn’s hand on her arm stopped her.